


The Loves and Cabals of Julian Alfred Pankratz

by frances_the_red



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 5+1 Things, Action/Adventure, Angst, Bards, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Other, Sensory Deprivation, Songfic, The Author Regrets Everything, Torture, and tags, no beta we die like witchers, the author is leaving too much notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frances_the_red/pseuds/frances_the_red
Summary: Geralt meets people Jaskier rather tries to avoid.One fateful day he was suddenly one of them.Featuring: Priscilla, the Countess de Stael, Viscount & Viscountess de Lettenhove and Valdo Marx.
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Countess de Stael, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Priscilla, Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Comments: 98
Kudos: 356
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. Valdo Marx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valdo Marx: a bard who considers our protagonist "a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses." May he die of apoplexy.

Geralt fucking hated Drowners.

He was dripping with water and mud. The only thing he wanted was a long hot bath, now that he had collected his coin. He could only hope that Jaskier had actually followed through with his orders this time and stayed out of trouble. He was so done with the little shit tonight. 

When the Witcher finally reached the ‘Golden Drum’ he got withering looks from the inn keeper which he probably deserved. He dragged mud everywhere, after all.

Something was up.

The room was lit in nice low candle light, enough to see but not so much as to disturb is hightened eye sight. There was ale and still hot stew on a wonky table. There was a warm inviting fire in the fireplace, a stand above it heating up warm water in a cauldron. And lo and behold, there stood an oaken bathing tub, only waiting for him to get inside.   
This was way too perfect. 

“Jaskier?”

“You are back! Thank god. You ok?” 

The bard sprang from the bed and instantly started on the buckles of his armor, all the while roaming his eyes for any injuries. “You took like forever, I got worried. A bit more and I would have come searching for you.” 

“Mhh.” Because that would have helped, of course. 

The minstrel lifted the armor from him and with one swift motion that spoke for his years as an unparalleled lover took his shirt right with him. 

“Come on, eat something and take the rest off, while I make that bath ready for you.”

Geralt never took his eyes of the bard, while he flitted around, sprinkling some salt and oil in the tub and adding hot water from the couldron in until steam filled the little room, smelling faintly like rosemary. The White Wolf couldn’t stop his suspicion. The bard was up to something. But when he sank into the bath with a groan and his muscles started to loosen, he forgot all about it for a while.

He had soaked in the wonderful feeling for about ten minutes, when the ministrations started. Jaskier started to wash his hair without asking, which he took in stride. It was often enough that the bard tended to his white strands. The fact that this happened in total silence was a novel experience, though. After rinsing, the bard beckoned him with some simple touches to sit forward a bit and when he started to massage his neck and shoulders, Geralt couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. He couldn’t help but enjoy the touches and kneading those expert hands lavished on his body, though.

It was strange how fast his mind and body had accepted his tag-along bard as non-threatening. Laying his neck bare like that usually ended with someone having a dagger in their eye. The bard picking up about his sensitivity to light, smell and touch was eerie. But then again, being observant was part of his trade as a bard. Knowing how to please people seemed to be one of his talents. He stopped thinking when Jaskier started to work on the kinks in his lower back. Geralt suppressed a pornographic groan ripping from his throat. 

He must have dozed off for a moment, because when he came back to himself, Jaskier was working on one of his feet propped up over the too small bathing tub. 

“Geralt? I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Sneaky bastard. Here it comes. 

“There is a thing that I would like to attend in Vartburg. No fancy party or anything. Just a little competition.” 

Little competition all right. Geralt had heard about the Continental Bardic Championship. It was a carneval, festival and tournament all rolled into one. This would be hell. 

Geralt closed his eyes again when Jaskier pressed into the soft flesh of his left foot just right. 

“I know you hate the big cities because of the smell and all the people but… it would just be a few days. Three days tops and we are on the path again. I can go alone but… it would be nice to share this experience with someone. Will you come?”

A thump pressed into his sole at the word _come_. He nearly bit his tongue, when a whine of pleasure tried to escape from his lips. Manipulative asshole.

“Yes”, he pressed out.

He heard the gratefully whispered “Thank you, Witcher.” 

Thank god Jaskier and him were not fucking. Who knows what he would agree to on a regular basis. 

——————————————————

“I am not sure about the ‘no hat’ choice anymore. And that red doublet seems so restricting suddenly. Flashy and overconfident, too. Bad choices all around. So are the songs. My practice last night was terrible, Geralt. Too much timbre, not enough pause. You think I should change that rhyme rhythm again? ‘O’er glistening roofs you float, through lily-strewn rivers you dive’. Mhh. ‘Over glis-ten-ing roofs you’-What am I doing, Geralt? These lyrics are shit. The melody is off. Everything is-”

Geralt let the bards nervous babble wash over him, while he tried to release some stress through breathing. He was kind of relieved when he was allowed to follow Jaskier behind the curtain and into a little antechamber right off the stage, where actors usually changed costume. It was darker and less smelly, a reprieve from the hellish sensory overload that was the crowded audience.  
Now if Jaskier would only stop fiddling and pacing and working himself into a nervous mess and smelling like anxiety, he may have been able to get rid of the giant headache.  
“-and I am also pretty certain that the E-string on my lute sounds off. Not to offend this lovely elven lute, but she has been a bit temperamental lately and if the E is not right, then the whole chord is off, it sounds like a minor, and that’s just not-”  
“Jaskier?”  
“Yes, Geralt?”  
“Breath. And stop pacing. You will do fine.”  
He did try both for a few minutes, still fidgeting with his hands. They went to his collar, then to the lute strap, fingers playing chords in midair, then pulling on his shirt sleeves, the lute strap again, his right plucking some imagined strings, through his hair, again with the lute strap.  
“Geralt?”  
“Mh.”  
“Geralt, could you hug me? For luck.”   
“You don’t need luck.”  
Fidgeting. Then pacing, the four steps it took to go through the room. One-two-three-four. Turn. One-two-three-four. Turn.   
“Fine, come here.”, he resigned himself, opening his arms up. As soon as the bard was nestled between his strong arms, he seemed to be breathing easier. The tension in his shoulders ebbing away the tiniest bit. His now steady hands placed against Geralts breast. Odd.  
Geralt had no idea how the bard could relax in the arms of a killer. Someone who was shunned out of villages and feared by most he met. Maybe he lost his touch.  
“Finalists ready in fi-ieek!” The stage assistant fled as he was stared down with one of his patented glares.   
No, still got it. Even odder.   
Jaskier released himself from the unusual gentle touch, breathing through his mouth once more. “I can do this.”  
Geralt presented him with a tiny half smile that would hopefully portray his support.   
The bard left the anteroom leaving the door ajar, so Geralt got a good look on the second finalist already waiting impatiently at the stage door. A tall man, slender but broader shoulders than Jaskier, black hair, a harp in long fingers, impeccably trimmed mustache and goatee, blue doublet on a black blouson.

“Here we are again, Jaskier.”  
“Shut the fuck up, Valdo.”  
Ah. The nemesis. Jaskier probably wished upon a djinn this second.  
“This will be an easy win for me, considering how subpar your recent work is. Witcher ballads? Really? The lyrics are horrible and the rhyme scheme was completely off. Throwing an ‘elf back on the shelf’? Really?”  
“At least people know about my work. Your harp concerts boring the court ladies yet?”  
“They are delighted. Always so eager to string my harp and blow my flute.”  
“Yes, I remember you plugging the strings no matter the instrument very well, as long as you could climb up the scale.”  
“Don’t be that way, Jask. It doesn’t suit you.”  
“I beg to differ, I look good in everything. You on the other hand look like a giant peacock today.”  
“Have you looked in a mirror yet, you little slut?”  
“F-Finalists on the stage? Please?” the assistant pleaded, hoping to get out of this situation.  
A door was opened and off they went into roaring applause.   
Then every sound was muffled.   
Thank god. He needed a nap. The headache was killing him. 

—————

About two hours later when he heard that right stage door opening and the thunderous applause that came with it, he opened his eyes again, thankful for the semi darkness. He peeked through the still ajar antechamber door.  
There stood Valdo Marx, not moving one muscle for a second. Since he could still hear the crowd cheering, he could only assume that Jaskier basked in his moment of triumph. Geralt felt himself smile and an intense swelling of emotion started to rise in his chest. Being proud of his bard felt nice. He could get used to that.   
The moment was gone when he watched Valdo Marx hitting his harp at the wall. He smashed it hard time and time again as if the symbol of his profession meant nothing to him. He threw it on the floor and kicked it again for good measure to make sure even the last string snapped.  
This wasn’t just some childish fit because he lost. This was raw aggression and violence.  
Geralt thought of the thousand times he caught Jaskier handling his lute like a lover, petting her curvy design, caressing the long neck and whispering sweet nothings into the wood. He had no comparison, but Jaskier would probably describe this scene with the word rape.  
The door opened again and his own bard came into view, practically glowing, wearing a flower crown.  
He didn’t know what hit him, when Valdo grabbed him by the throat, hitting him against the wall like his harp just a minute ago.  
Geralt had a dagger in his hand in seconds and was more than ready to ram Marx through when he smelled Jaskier.  
Fear and… desire?  
And just as he noticed this odd shift, Jaskier pulled Marx on his collar into a crushing kiss. He lunges for Marxs mouth, fisting his hands into doublet and blouson, ripping them open, all the while being pushed into the wall. He broke the kiss for breath, a gasp and moan escaping his red bitten lips. “You attention slut”, Marx groaned. It’s a desperate slick mess of tongues and hands while they fight for domination for a bit. Jaskier managed to reverse his position, the bearded man being the one slammed into a wall this time, while Marx was more interested in getting his hand into the lutists pants. Jaskier wedged his thigh between Valdos, grinding their erections together in a hard rhythm. “Sore loser”, Jask manages to groan into his ear. Marx used the open presentation of a bared neck, licked a slick path down and bites. The bards whole body shuddered from that, leaving him vulnerable. Marx grabbed Jaskier by the hands and turned them again, this time pushing the winner facefirst, placing his hands on both sides of his head, grinding into his behind.  
“That’s just the way, we both always liked it, isn’t it? Me right behind you?”  
Slender fingers wandered into Jaskiers trousers again and began stroking in a hard tempo. Jaskers needed his hands to hold on to the wall now, the way his legs trembled. He could only hold on for dear life, while Marx ground into him from behind, stroking him fast and hard with one hand and pushing his head down in domination with the other. After that, it was over quickly. Jaskier spasmed, stifling a shout. Marx took a step back, licked his come slick fingers and arranged himself in his trousers.  
“Not a really satisfying vindication, but I will take it. It was nice to see you again, Jask. Come visit me some time.”  
“Fuck off, Valdo”, his voice sounding as wrecked as he looked debauched.   
He didn’t turn around again, trying to close his doublet but leaving it as a lost cause, while chuckling.  
Jaskier leaned back on the wall for a moment, getting his breath under control while closing his britches.  
Unsure with the events just witnessed, Geralt couldn’t help but notice what a good look that was on him, hair tousled, shirt askew and with a fucking bitemark on his neck. The thought of how it came to pass made him feel ill at ease, though.   
When Jaskier looked composed again and inspected his destroyed flower crown, he drew attention to himself by opening the antechamber door all the way.   
“Geralt!” His face lit up like the sun when he met his eyes. “I AM A MASTER BARD!” he exclaimed, while doing a silly little victory dance.  
“Couldn’t have done it without you, my Witcher”, and with those words, set the crown upon white hair.  
“Let’s get out of this place, I know you hate it here. You look paler than your usual pale. You alright? What were you up to?”   
Geralt didn’t know how to react. The bard must know how he himself looked right now, right? How he smelled? His eyes grazed over the bite mark again and Valdo Marx' first brutal attack was slowly making themself visible in form of bruises. But the bard obviously didn’t want to talk about it. It wasn’t his business anyway, right?  
“Napping.”  
  
—————

With Vartburg far behind them, Geralt could finally breathe again. The wilderness surrounded him like a security blanket with it’s known smells and sounds: a plover, a squirrel flitting from tree to tree, earth and soil, soft colored greens and browns. He felt a bit more like himself again when they set camp.  
They were going through their motions, wordless and swift from long camaraderie. But he couldn’t stop flicking his eyes to Jaskiers neck time and time again. He still couldn’t decide on how he felt about Jaskier. But he was pretty sure he wanted to see Valdo Marx dead, preferably by his own hand. 

When they finally sat down on their bedrolls, Jasker sighted deeply.   
“Since you obviously can’t let it go, let’s talk about it like adults. In our case: let me talk and you do your whole”-he waved his hand in a roundabout motion-”not using your words thing.”  
“Mh.” Affirmation.  
“I don’t know what you saw, heard or smelled, but I can assure you that it was… two consenting adults and it was right for you not to interfere.”  
A questioning huff.  
“Me and Valdo go way back. We met in my first term in Oxenfurt. We enjoyed the same things - the music, fine wine, intricate fabrics, easy company - and we were good friends. We fell into bed together a lot. It was nice and easy. Then came the rivalry. Our professors always goaded us into competition, because it spurred us on to be a better version of ourself. But every time one of us got the better over the other we tried to release our frustration through sex. It became an unhealthy addiction.”  
Absentmindedly Jaskier let his fingers flutter over the fading bite.  
“I tried to change this… dynamic for a while. But I realized soon, that I wanted something that he wasn’t willing to give me. We left on bitter terms. And now it is this raw wound that I need to scratch whenever I see him.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes, the high from winning and the nerves before that crashing down on him.   
“I try to resist. Try to avoid him in general. He changed so much and gotten this dark persona that I start to fear him a bit. I know it is not healthy and a bit on the dubious side. The hate-sex is still soooo good, tho. And he brings out all these emotions in me. That’s what I am after all: 160 pounds of emotions, music and stubbornness.”  
“You forgot stupidity.”  
“Oh, so now you know how to use your words?” Jaskier threw him a good natured smile, even though it seemed exhausted.   
“It’s also not true. You certainly weight more than 160 pounds.”  
He looked equally shocked and amused. “Are you calling me fat, Geralt?”  
Geralt gave him an indulgent little smile.  
That seemed to settle the matter. It was quiet for a while, the both of them arranging their bedrolls.   
“Next time I see his ugly goatee, I will stick some steel through him, though.”  
“Fine by me. Make it painful. Fucking Valdo Marx.”  
“Mh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No native speaker. No beta. No shame.
> 
> This is as smutty as it gets, guys. That’s what my draft says, at least. But who knows, Jaskier keeps on charming peoples pants off and I can’t do anything against it. The next chapters have completely other intonations: Some will involve abuse - emotional as well as physical -, some will be as lovey-dovey as my cold dark writer soul can manage. I am feeling experimental and want to try some things out. There will be a songfic thing (because bards!), an adventure and one chapter with a lot of dialog. I am still trying to make all my ideas work as a whole while also respecting the timeline and maintaining a balanced book-game-netflix-ratio. It's a mess in the making. Tags will be added accordingly. You have been warned.
> 
> What did Jaskier perform?  
> “She recognised the melody, which the bard had been composing for several days. The ballad, Dandelion had boasted of several times, was entitled “Elusive” and would bring triumph to the poet at the annual tournament held for bards in the late autumn at the castle of Vartburg.” - - Time of Contempt by Andrzej Sapkowksi  
> The poor thing was nervous enough, I didn’t want to condemn him with my piss poor poetry so gave him his own:
> 
> O'er glistening roofs you float  
> Through lily-strewn rivers you dive  
> Yet one day I will know your truths  
> If only I am still alive...
> 
> Next Week: Priscilla


	2. Priscilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a poet and a romantic, I have immortalized in flowery verse the charms both corporeal and spiritual of many women. Yet when I open my mouth to sing the praises of Priscilla, I find - hard as this might be to conceive - that my throat constricts, words turn to meal in my mouth, and all elaborate turns of speech seem artificial and empty when compared to the natural beauty, talent, sensitivity and intellect nature has bestowed her.
> 
> \- Journal Entry of Dandelion / The Witcher 3:WH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will Jaskier and guest perform this time?  
> Unwanted Animal, Wanderlust, Wild blue yonder, Marbels and Fair by The Amazing Devil. 
> 
> This one is somewhat of a love letter to The Amazing Devil and their lovely voices in general. Listen to their album The Horror and the Wild while reading this chapter, I beg of you.

“Geralt, please. They are already lighting the fires. Could we just stop in one place already?”  
“There is still light to travel. Stop whining.”  
“I am not whining, I am exhausted! We killed some neckers, went diving for that horrible stinking sea grass, met a troll and gave him a toll because you refused to kill him -”  
“They are the backbone of bridge maintenance.”  
“- helped out a dwarf and then got that old creepy woman her frying pan back. All in a days work. And all we got are some odd herbs and pretty rocks, five apples, half a dozen potatoes and a grilled chicken.”  
“The chicken was good.”  
Jaskier sighed deeply.  
“You have to stop doing these odd side jobs and then refusing payment, Geralt. You can’t pay for beds and baths with good will and mushrooms. Gosh, I would kill for a bed right now. No more for today, I forbid you! Also: It’s Belleteyn! Aren’t you the least bit infected with the spirit of the season?”  
“Mh.” Jaskier knew a dismissive grunt, when he heard one.   
They were on the Path again, on the edge of yet another nameless forest somewhere in Brugge. A long beautiful carpet of downhill grass sprinkled with wildflowers stretched between them and a little valley were another big fire was just lit. The dawn light gave the panorama a rose red setting. The fact that there were two birds somewhere, battling for competition over the better singing voice, made Jaskier all the more longing for a Belleteyn fire. There was the smell of spring in the air, the fragrance of smoking wood and herbs combining to a distinct aroma. His heart was almost hurting with the beauty of it.  
Music was drifting up from the settling now, just some mumbled tunes at first, that Jaskier couldn’t place. A haunting voice, greeting the dawn and the coming night. But suddenly the singer let out a gutted scream, animalistic and raw, as if she wanted to compete with the wolfes.   
Jaskier stopped in his steps and turned to the Witcher, a manic grin spreading on his face.   
“Priscilla” he whispered reverently. As if that would explain everything he then ran away like a madman possessed, sprinting down the little hill to the Belleteyn fire.  
“I’ll put a leash on him one day”, the mutant complained to Roach, who neighed in agreement, then following the bard on his way cross country.  
_“-be good to me I beg of him, be good be good be good-”_  
The echo of a female voice followed him like a haunting. 

He caught up with him a few steps before the little party, who set up camp here. Wine and mead was flowing freely, a waterskin with something stronger being passed around. Some of the people wore robes, indicating a druid group. Other fellows sported the brightly colored garb of bards, the most daring going way too far with their big poufy hats and ridiculous feathers on top.  
The woman dancing around the fire didn’t wear much of anything. It looked like a night dress or chemise. The white cloth was clinging to her in places that made it obvious that she was naked underneath. She danced around the fire with bare foot, her eyes closed, long blonde hair swaying with her motions.  
A lutist and a harp player provided a melody, a third bard sporting an impressive beard slapping a tambourine or the drum between his legs in abandon. There was no conversation, just gentle touches and gestures, while they let the magic of the night and the power of the music wash over them like a drug.   
_“Because Farewell Wanderlust, you’ve been oh so kind_  
_You brought me to this party but you left me here behind.”_  
She nearly growled some of her lyrics into the flames, trying to let go of some pent up emotion raging in her.  
_“So long to the person you begged me to be_  
_She’s down.-”_  
The bearded bard slammed his palm into the drum two times.  
“ _She’s dead”_  
Drum-drum.

_“Instead what is left but this old satin dress_  
_and the mess that you left_  
_when you told me I wasn’t right in the head.”_

  
“You alright?”, singsonged Jaskier into the near silence, not really breaking the unspoken rule of not speaking, but startling all those present out of their daze. The blonde looked up, her eyes zoning in on him. A beautiful smile lit her face upon recognition.   
_“You gave us such a fright. We’d hate to see your mascara drip into your pint.”_  
_“Might you allow me to slip into something more comfortable then?”_ she crooned, begging him closer with a reaching hand.   
“ _Be our guest. With hoik of her bra,_ ” - she kicked up one of her shoulders, uncovering a lot of tantalizing pale skin - “ _she waved to the bar and she slipped into the night._ ”-doing just that, leaving Jaskier in the center of attention. She downed some wine, thirsty after giving the song her all.  
The master bard was not one to leave a song unfinished, so he closed his eyes, softly trying to ease into the atmosphere Priscilla left behind. 

  
_“Come devil come, she sang, call out my name_  
_Let’s take this outside cos we’re one and the same_  
_Our gods have abandoned us, left us, instead_  
_Take up arms, take my hand, let us waltz for the dead.”_

  
He obviosly found some emotion in him that gained momentum, because his voice as well as his movements spoke of utter defeat. The people around the fire witnessed the unfolding of an aching heart that was silenced for too long. They were all audience to the torment that ripped through Jaskiers soul and voice with abandon.   
Geralt had never seen him like that. Was he hiding all this under his usually good natured manner? How could he not burst?

  
“ _This here is not make up, it’s a porcelain tomb_  
_And this here is not singing, I’m just screaming in tune”_

\- and he did. Screamed his will of fight and survival over the Belleteyn fire and into this night of change. 

  
_“Because Farewell Wanderlust, you’ve been ever so kind_  
_You brought me through this darkness but you left me here behind_  
_And so long to the person you begged me to be”_  
The blond singer had joined him again, obviously not willing to leave him alone in is plight.  
_“He’s down”_ \- She grabbed him by the collar,  
“ _He’s dead_ ” - ripping open half of doublet and shirt, baring his haired breast and heart to the moonlight,  
“ _now take a good long look at what you’ve done to me”._

  
Geralt had seen a lot in his long life, but this certainly was a first. His yellow eyes were glued to the two bards, looking wrecked and debauched, singing and dancing in front of the fire like possessed by a carnal god, consumed by the drums.   
After one long last note the performers stilled, standing side by side, breathing heavily, then wrapping their arms around each other like the long lost friends they were.   
“Hello Priscilla.”  
“Jaskier.”  
They stared into each others eyes for half an eternity, then kissed each other long and hard.   
Geralt coudn’t help but roll his eyes.

He sat down by the fire in defeat. They obviously weren’t going anywhere tonight.   
“Fuckin’ bards, right?”, said the seasoned looking drummer sitting on a sturdy marching bass drum, pushing a bottle with schnapps into the White Wolfes hands.  
“You’ll need it, mate. There will be nothing but love songs for a while.”  
“Shit.”  
The musician shrugged his shoulders. “’Tis the season, after all. - OY! Stop with the tongue wrestling! Hands were I can see them, boy! Preferably on your lute!”  
Priscilla and Jaskier managed to part, the prospect of singing together after so long overpowering.

And sweet Melitele, how they sung.

They voices matched perfectly, Jaskiers tenor in no way inferior to Priscillas haunting but powerful soprano, matching her highs with deeper harmonies.

 _“-So one last time, love, come and rip my clothes_  
_Get a grip, we're grownups._  
_Let’s wander, till the fuckers demand an encore.”_  
_“Flirting-”_  
_”Wasn’t flirting.”,_ replied Jaskier, a cheeky grin on his face.  
_“At the back of a bookshop_  
_Come and rip off my socks like you’re blasting the locks off of a bank vault.”_  
_“Halt!”_  
_“This time we’re done for.”_

There was obviously a story to that. Were all of Jaskiers songs based on a true moment in his life? He should probably start being more attentive to the minstrels lyrics. He usually only listened with half an ear when the troubadour went into musician mode. 

_“Let’s hide under the covers_  
_We don’t know what’s out there_  
_Could be wolves_  
_So hold me, lover, like you used to_  
_So tight I’d bruise you_  
_I’d bruise you, I’d bruise you too-”_

Geralt saw no sign of Axii being in play, but there surely must have been some strange magic being cast on him. He was enraptured by those two. They sang duett after duett. They were not performing, but just enjoying the music-making for the musics sake. You could practically see the songs vibrating through them, their senses filled with nothing but rhythm and sound. The outside world was far away.   
Jaskier coaxed all kinds of sounds out of his elven lute - from tender timbres to powerful chords and anything in between - and all the while Priscilla danced around him, interacted with him, sometimes touching an arm or a shoulder, ruffling through hair or playfully poking him. There was an easy cameradie between them that Geralt was… envious of.   
Which was dumb, because he traveled with the bard for some years now. They knew each others quirks and idiosyncrasies, joked around and touched each other. 

_“And I will wait and hope_  
_And rest my head at night content_  
_Knowing where my marbles went._  
_I’ve loved you, for a hundred years_  
_Certainly fucking feels like it_  
_The minute I met you the colours of my life begun to pour_  
_I’m scared of the dark_  
_And now, even though you’re mad and these memories won’t stay, it’s okay_  
_Cos now I get to meet you for the first time every single day-”_

Well… Jaskier touched, he realized, when he led the harmonies wash over him.

Playing with his hair when his body healed itself. Touching his arm for comfort, when a villager threw him a hateful comment. Washing guts from his back. Massaging his feet after a particularly horrible hunt. Holding his wrist, when he wanted to smash an idiot into a wall. Softly pressing his palm against Geralts lower back to announce that he was there, which was redundant for his Witcher senses, but he appreciated the gesture for what it was.   
A reassurance.   
_I am here. And I will be there when you need me._  
Geralt never reciprocated these sentiments, he realized.  
It was time to change that, too. That and actually listening. Because for all the talking the bard did, he certainly didn’t say what he actually meant.

While stuck in his musings, he did not realize that he had emptied the schnapps bottle until a slim figure sat beside him, offering... something. A short sniff identified the liqid as some nasty pepper vodka.

  
“So you are the White Wolf he is serenading about in every kingdom, then?”  
“And you are Priscilla, who he never mentioned before?”  
“He did not? What a shame. I toured from Pont Vanis to Novigrad and hoped to be a keen competition by now. But I guess I’ll never gain an edge over him.”  
“You two seem … close.”

She smiled and looked over to their subject of conversation, who was still strumming the lute. He played lively jiggs while people were trying to jump over the fire, daring and encouraging them. 

  
“We are an on and off thing, I guess. When our stars align we are burning bright, but if we try to keep each other company for more than a month we are at each others throats like alley cats. When we meet now, we do the one-perfect-night thing and part with heartache. We try to avoid each other to spare us the pain.”  
“I don’t get it. Jaskier and you seem to be two birds of a feather.”  
“And that’s just the thing. We are too similar. The talking for example. If two people are constantly speaking, there is no one listening. And the composing! Have you ever tried singing while he worked on a song?”  
“I am not very vocal.”  
“Well, try it some time. Humming will suffice. It will drive him nuts.”   
Roaring laughter erupted when a druids robe catched fire.   
“We are both very independent, driven by wanderlust. And we like to take care of people. What he needs is a person he can constantly lavish in attention and who doesn’t resent him for it. Also, the lovers. We are both very liberal when it comes to sex and affection. We had fights about some particular bedfellows when we tried the relationship thing. And then he had this really strange thing going on with a harpist.”  
“Fucking Valdo Marx.”   
That made her laugh.  
“You had the displeasure of meeting him, I guess?”  
“Mh.” 

The commotion around them had died down. Half of the Belletayn party was very drunk, lounging around the fire, some of them talking or kissing. Another part had gone missing, probably trying out that fertility thing as it was custom.  
Jaskier sat on the other side, still softly playing his lute, while looking thoughtfully into the bonfire.  
When he noticed them looking, he gave them both one of his soft smiles and started to sing low-key. 

_“It’s what my heart just yearns to say In ways that can’t be said_  
_It’s what my rotting bones will sing when the rest of me is dead_  
_It’s what’s engraved upon my heart in letters deeply worn_  
_Today I somehow understand the reason I was born_  
_Cos outwardly he says I try so hard to make you laugh at me_  
_And she, she does, she laughs as though she´s not heard the joke ten thousand times before-”_

Priscilla snorted at that. The lyrics were so obviously about her, because she kept on reacting to particular lines. And all the while Jaskier looked at Priscilla as if she hung the moon.  
Geralt was not jealous. He was not. He had his own songs after all.

_“It’s not fair, it’s not fair how much I love you_  
_It’s not fair, cos you make me laugh when I’m actually really fucking cross at you for something_  
_And he’ll say Oh how oh how unreasonable_  
_How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do_  
_I’ll spend my days so close to you cos if I’m standing here maybe everyone will think I’m alright”_

Geralt decided to look into the fire or into his bottle after the first chorus. This seemed like a very private moment, he shouldn’t be witness to. He also couldn’t deal with all those feelings in Jaskiers cerulean blue eyes.  
If he would have kept watching, he probably would have wondered about the eyes suddenly being stuck on the Witcher. Priscilla noticed, though. And her mouth made a small ‘oh’ form when the penny dropped. 

_“I’ve seen enough he says I know exactly what I want_  
_And it’s this life that we’ve created, inundated with the fated thought of you_  
_And if you asked me to, if you asked me I would lose it all_  
_Like petals in a storm, cos darling I was born_  
_To press my head between your shoulder blades at night when light is fading_  
_Just to let you know I’m old, waylaid and feels like I am wading into_  
_Carpet burns and carousels oh Christ you’ll be the death of me_  
_And calm throughout his melodrama she will turn and say ‘dear heart It’s me, its me_  
_You don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not_  
_Cos it’s not like I’ve never heard you fart and snore_  
_And for some god forsaken reason I’m still here love like I’ve always been before.”_

A single silent tear ran down his face and his voice nearly broke, because as always, the fucking Witcher wasn’t listening. Wasn’t looking. What else is new? 

_“It’s not fair, it's not fair how much I love you_  
_It’s not fair cos you make me ache you bastard_  
_And she’ll say_  
_Oh how, oh how unreasonable_  
_How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do_  
_I’ll spend my days so close to you cos if I’m stood here_  
_Then I’m stood here_  
_And I’ll stand here_  
_I’ll stand here with you”_

“Oh my. You are one lucky bastard, witcher.”  
“Mh?” After his second bottle of high-proof beverage and the lullaby like melody of Jaskier, Geralt finally had a nice buzz going on. He had no idea why the blonde singer was looking at him like he was a complicated puzzle, then shook her head sadly and whispered “You better figure it out.”   
Then Priscilla stood, made her barefooted way around the fire to give his bard a long hug and a bittersweet kiss.   
Her hands wandered from his neck over his shoulders and then roamed over his hairy chest. Priscilla obviously had a thing for that, Geralt noticed. Maybe Jaskiers chest hair was particularly soft? While he wondered about that, Jaskiers hand had wandered from small hips, down to calves and up to shapely thighs again and then disappearing between her legs. Priscilla whimpered beautifuly. 

Hell no. What is it with Jaskier and exhibitionism? 

Geralt lay down and closed his eyes. He had no intention to start a trend with bard sex voyeurism. While he tried to drown out the noises that came with the love making, he thought of lilac eyes and raven hair, drifting into sleep.

————

When they parted the next morning the bard acted like a heartsick puppy. He over and over lamented the fact that Priscilla was gone and took that angelic voice with her. Leaving him miserable. Again. It was always the hardest goodbye with her. They were both equally miserable every time they split, and equally wanting whenever they got back together, promising to themselves that this time they wouldn't make the same mistakes.  
When they made camp and Jaskier strummed another melancholic tune, intending to use his heartache to write another fucking love song, Geralt had enough. They had a dynamic. And if Jaskier was insisting on being the one with a mood, then maybe it ways Geralts turn to be the irritable one.  
He started humming the insufferable Coin song, because it was kind of catchy and the first melody his brain came up with.   
The string picking stopped at once.  
“Will you stop that?”  
“What?”  
“The humming. It’s damn distracting.”  
“It’s stuck in my head. You played that one too many times.”  
“If it’s stuck in your head then _keep_ it there. I am composing here.”  
There was silence for a while. Jaskier tried to find the melody again he was strumming just a minute ago. He gave up after the fifth failed attempt, screeched out a frustrated little sound and teared at his hair.

“I had it. I had the love song of the century. It went like mhh-mh-mhehlalamhmh… or something.”  
He grabbed his lute once more, playing three chords, then scrunched up his nose.   
Played two more.   
Stared at nothing for a while.  
“GRAH!”, he screamed in frustration, throwing his hands in the air.  
Geralt turned his back under the pretense of meditation, smirking.  
“Thank god we are parting tomorrow, you have been insufferable the last days.”  
Geralts smirk dropped into a frown.  
“We are parting tomorrow?”  
“Well yes. It’s Belleteyn, Geralt. There is a birthday party in Cintra that I attend every year. That’s how birthdays work. I wrote a lovely little ditty about a Lion Cub I intent to premier, so I don't intent to be late, come hell or high water. There is a boat in Dillingen that will sail down the Jaruga tomorrow at noon. You are welcome to join, of course. I am sure there will be lots of lewd shanties and a sea monster or siren to vanquish along the way.”  
“Mhh.”   
He had absolutely no intention of setting even one toe into Cintra ever again.   
The fact that Jaskier had an eye on his child surprise did some odd things to him, though. He wasn’t sure if he liked that feeling or not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No native speaker. No beta. No shame. 
> 
> Jaskiers ‘ditty’ will be his best known ballad of all time: the Lion Cub of Cintra.  
> There is no mention of when he actually wrote it, so I just put it in there for fun. I have a really hard time figuring out Ciris age. This scene you just read plays in 1257 Witcher TV timeline. TV Geralt claimed the Law of Surprise in 1249, which means that Ciri will be around 7 now. According to the books Ciri was born around Belleteyn 1252 or 1253, tho. I intend to roll with the TV timeline and when that ends make important dates up as I go. 
> 
> But enough with the lovers. Now to something completely different.  
> Next week: the parents.


	3. De Lettenhove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The important thing in this story is that Dandelion was a friend to Geralt of Rivia – possibly his only true friend. He was Geralt's confidant, advisor, and companion in misery (for it was impossible to experience good fortune in the witcher's company). What Geralt did, Dandelion faithfully recounted, and one should not give credence to those who accuse this humble chronicler of confabulating.  
> \- Journal Entry /The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today there will be some adventure and dialogue. My writers bingo card is coming along nicely. 
> 
> What will our master bard Jaskier perform this time?  
> Fix you by Coldplay. I prefer the softer cover version by Canyon City here. The Collabro cover is also very nice. I suggest to listen to them all to really get that 'right in the feels'-mood.

"Shit shit shit shitshitshitshit!"   
Jaskier knew that cursing nonstop probably did not help in the situation they found themselves in right now, but his foul mouth wanted to keep up with his foul mood somehow. He spit some more water, rearranged his grip on Geralt and finally pulled the heavy Witcher out of the river.   
What had started as a simple search for some missing persons in Dorian had soon developed in a Manticore hunt. Jaskier was actually happy about that for a second - because _hello_ , lion body, bat wings and scorpion tail? The verses were writing itself in his head already.   
_No man escaped it’s roar, behold the manticore!_  
Turned out that manticores were fucking hard to kill, though. Who would have guessed? Jaskier also did not know that - as a last resort before dying - they could throw that venomous spine in their tail to paralyze stuff. Like Geralts leg.   
Jaskier did not remember how they ended up in the river. He vividly remembered the dryads shooting them with warning arrows when he tried to get out of the stream by the Brokilon woods, though. Geralt, the stupid savior that he was, took an arrow meant for Jaskier into the shoulder. 

Jaskier broke down on the riverbank, his chest heaving from keeping himself and the White Wolf from drowning for what had felt like forever. Coughing up more water, he turned to the still form beside him in panic.   
“Geralt, you alive?”  
“Mh.”  
“You okay?”  
“Still can’t feel my leg, there’s an arrow in my shoulder and a pint of water in my lungs. I’m fucking peachy.”  
“Good. A day like any other then.” Geralt was in a mood. He would be fine. 

They were laying there by the riverside for another ten minutes, catching their breath. It was a feat keeping a well muscled witcher in armor with two swords on his back afloat. Geralt was a bit impressed. Jaskier was not. Everything hurt.   
Then they both heard the rumble in the distance, a prophetic sign for an oncoming storm.   
Jaskier released a sob. “This can’t be happening.”  
“We need to find cover.”  
The bard released another hiccuping sob.   
“Jaskier? Are you listening? We need to find a safe place to recover.”  
“Yes, that’s just the thing, though. I know a place.”  
Geralt stilled.   
“We are at the edge of the Brokilon, on the southbank of the Adalatte, which means in the middle of fucking nowhere in Kerack and you just so happen to know a place?”  
Jaskier whimpered.

————————

He had no idea where Roach had appeared from after Geralt whistled, - she was a fucking miracle horse - but the bard was crying a tear or two, when the relief hit him that he didn’t have to carry a heavy muscle-bound hunk all the way to their destination. Together they awkwardly managed to get Geralt into a semicomfortable position on the saddle. Jaskier checked on his lute, still tightly strapped to Roaches side, and off they went.   
Two hours later when the first raindrops started to fall they stood in front of a gigantic manor.  
“Who goes there?”, asked a guard, huddled under a cape.  
“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Open up.”  
The guard blinked a few times, looking Jaskier over, his eyes wandering to the witcher who still had part of an arrow sticking from his shoulder. He took in their horrible state of disarray, smelling like seaweed and death warmed over. But he must have recognized something in Jaskier for he stood to the side and let them through the gate without further questioning.   
Geralt had no idea what just happened, but Jaskier led his girl into stables on the right side of the manor with obvious local knowledge.   
A stable hand approached them instantly, doing a double take when he recognized one of the newly arrived.   
“Master Julian?”  
“Oh sweet Melitele. Alessandro?! It’s so good to see a friendly face right now.”

Jaskier hugged the man without caring about his drenched state. “You are still working here as a stable boy? Let me look at you!”

The man was in his late thirties, his face getting as red as the color of his beard and hair, when Jaskier caressed both of his cheeks, stroking over his facial hair in wonderment.  
“Stable master now, actually. And uhm… married too, Master Julian.”  
Jaskier broke into one of his sweet honest smiles, all sunshine and happiness. “Good for you, Alessandro.”  
They looked into each others eyes for another moment or two, Jaskier still caressing the redheads beard.  
  
“I am bleeding here!”  
“Ah yes, sorry. I’ll be with you in a second.” Jaskier turned his head to the side, his face somehow looking relieved when he noticed a big open space in one corner.   
“No carriage. They are not here, then?”  
Alessandro shook his head. “Only Master Louis. The Mistress and the Missus are expected back tomorrow.”  
Jaskier sighed deeply, as if steeling himself for a battle.  
“Well, one night of peace at least.”

He finally reached for Geralts good arm, gently helping him down and arranging him on his side, arm behind Jaskiers neck, balancing on one leg. They managed to hobble through the drizzle and entered the manor through the closest doors, which were the main gates. Geralt was heavily breathing through the pain and hoping to finally lay down.  
Geralt could suddenly feel Jaskiers muscles shift into a deeply ingrained order for _posture_. Geralt was suddenly aware that Jaskier was not that much smaller than him in height. His muscles hardened. Even his shoulders seemed to be broader suddenly. The change was eerie.  
The Witcher looked up.   
They were stared down by a regal looking man in his sixties standing in the middle of the foyer.  
“Julian?”  
“Father.”  
_Ah. That explains… a bit._  
The master of the house was looking at them long, unmoving. His eyes were of a cold steel blue, not at all like the warm cerulean of his sons, but one did notice the blood relationship when you knew what to look for. The long legs. The lithe form.  
Geralt listened to the drip drip drip of their clothes making a mess of the marble floor. Jaskier was obviously waiting for something. Geralt gritted his teeth, when the silence continued.   
_I am barely concious, what the hell are we waiting for?_  
“Your mother and sister turned your sleeping chambers into a dressing room, I’m afraid. But there are guest rooms available across the dining room. I’ll send Aurelie and Juliette after you and … your guest. You are excused.”  
“Sir.”  
And finally Jaskier dragged him through the foyer and into a corridor as fast as their hobbling shuffle allowed. A seemingly random door was opened and Geralt couldn’t help but groan in relief when he was carefully dropped on a - honest to god - _creme colored chaise longue_. The whole day seemed surreal by now. He had so many questions.   
“You are safe now,” murmured Jaskier into his ear, caressing his cheek and checking his forehead for fever.   
Geralts body took this as a sign, instantly drifting into unconsciousness. His last thought had been on the strange wording.   
The bard usually phrased these blessed words with a ‘we’. 

————

When Geralt came back to his senses, he first wanted to bolt because of all the strange smells. Wood polish and fancy washing agents, the smoke of a fire built on beech wood, a lingering scent of blood and vomit. And then the unique bouquet that was _Jaskier_.

He felt himself relaxing when his ears caught up with his nose. Jaskier was playing some melody on his lute, experimenting with pitch. There was a storm raging outside. The trees were cracking in their fight against the howling wind. Thunder. Rain. 

Geralt slowly opened his eyes, adjusting to the fire and candle light. While scanning his surroundings, his gaze went in search of the bard. And there he was, between chaise longue and fire place on a bear rug, composing on his lute with a far away look. The warm half light from the candles emphasized dark circles under his red eyes. His shirt was bloody in some and damp on other places, clinging to wide shoulders and small hips. With sleeves rolled up at the elbows, one couldn’t help but notice the fine wrists and long fingers.

In Geralts haze, the bard seemed both over-worldly and very breakable.

He sung with a soft voice, barely more than a half loud lullaby: 

> _“When you try your best but you don't succeed_  
>  _When you get what you want but not what you need_  
>  _When you feel so tired but you can't sleep_  
>  _Stuck in reverse._  
>  _When the tears come streaming down your face_  
>  _When you lose something you can't replace_  
>  _When you love someone but it goes to waste_  
>  _Could it be worse?”_

Jaskier paused in his musings, sighing deeply. He gently dropped the lute into his lap to use both his hands to rub his face. 

“That was maudlin.”  
Jaskier was at his side in an instant, looking equally relieved and agitated.   
“Thank the gods, you are awake.”  
“Mhh.”  
“Don’t mhh me, you bastard. I just removed an arrow out of your shoulder. Your actual line is supposed to be ‘Thank you for saving my life, bard. How will I ever repay you, bard? I appreciate your steady and delicate fingers, bard.’”  
Mentioned fingers fluttered over his body, checking for a fever on his forehead and cheek, then checking the hold of the bandages around his shoulder, wandering over a short blanket and down to a red sting mark on his leg, then his whole body up to his shoulder again.  
Geralt noticed that he was very naked under the thin blanket. The fire was warm, though. So were the minstrels hands.   
”Removing an arrowhead? An experience I really wouldn’t like to repeat. It’s usually much more pleasurable when I have half of my hand inside someone.”  
“Thank you for that mental image.“  
Explained the faint vomit stench, though.  
Jaskier was holding up two vials now, filled with a silver and golden liquid each.   
“I was not sure which kind you needed. Manticore sting was kind of a new one for me. I managed to get some Swallow down your throat for the blood loss. You mentioned once that the Honey stuff cancels everything else so I didn’t really know if it would interfere with the healing. And you usually down the golden one _before_ the monster of the week takes a bite out of you, so I was unsure if it would help you now or make it worse. So which one will it be? ”  
Geralt needed a moment there. While the White Honey stimulated the production of purifying enzymes, the Golden Oriole increased his resistance to toxins. It was impressive that the bard even knew this much. Geralt was very tight lipped about his potions and oils.   
“Leave them. I can feel my toes already. Give me a few more hours and I’m good to go.”  
“Okay then. I used the last suture to patch that shoulder, so you better not rip that. Seven fucking stitches, Geralt. Praised be Melitele that you were unconscious, you would have hated every second of it. We need to stock up on Alcohest, too. Your headaches are worse with that horrendous dwarven spirit as potion base.”, The bards thoughts were brought up in a mumble while rubbing at his red eyes.  
He looked like shit.   
Geralt put so much effort into keeping the bard at arm's length all the time. Was still trying to push him away sometimes. And the bard did what? Being stubborn. Making a point by being helpful. Learning by observing. Ruining yet another one of his ridiculous outfits. Stitching him up. Saving his life.  
That sudden warm pressure behind his chest was unnerving.   
Jaskier was trying to hide a massive yawn behind the back of his hand.  
“You good? I need a nap before the next poisonous battle.”  
“Venom”, corrected Geralt, equally sleepy. “If you bite something and die, it’s poison. If something bites you and you die, it’s venom.”  
“Not sure where my mother fits into that spectrum.”  
————————————

There was a knock late in the morning.   
Since Jaskier was sitting in a lavish bathtub, scrubbing his hands and arms like a madman - he insisted that there was still some of Geralts blood on it - he screamed a ‘come on in’ at the door.   
A maid entered the guest room, her eyes glued to the laundered clothes in her arms. She dared a quick look onto the Witcher, who was sitting on the chaise longue in nothing but a towel, his scarred torso bare except for a fresh bandage, his white hair still dripping with bath water. He had his armor in hand for inspection, but was following her every move with golden colored eyes. Her stench of fear increased instantly. She rushed to drop the laundry somewhere.  
“Master Louis and Mistress Isabella would be delighted if you would join them for lunch, Master Julian.”  
“Thank you, Aurelie. We will be there.”  
The maid looked at the bard with trepidation.  
“Umm… we as in-? I am afraid that your guest is not invited, Master Julian.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous. As you say, he is a guest and will be treated as such. Prepare another place setting, please. There will be food for five with Nicolette and mother only picking on some fruits and nuts like birds. The cook will be excited that his work is appreciated for once.”  
Aurelie dropped a dutiful curtsy and left in a hurry.  
The monster hunter wiggled a finger through the hole in his leather armor. Lovely. Maybe Jaskier would mend that for him until he could visit an armorsmith. The musician was quite handy with a needle and presented skillful patch jobs that Geralt could never manage.   
“You think thats wise? Me at a dinner table with your family?”  
“I think it is a great idea, actually.”  
The white haired man shuffled through the heap of freshly laundered clothing in search for his pants.  
“I am counting on their honor as hosts. Mother will be courtesy itself, insulting me with studied politeness. My father will say nothing at all, as is his nature, or ask a redundant question to fill the silence. My sister Letti …” -Jaskier sighed deeply- ”was raised to be nothing but a pretty face. Somewhere around age ten she believed it herself and hasn’t used her brain since. It’s sad, really. She was a very witty kid, a bit boyish and competitive. But we had very conservative teachers and nannys. When they weren’t beating literacy into me, they caned character out of her. If things had been different, she could have been the next Calanthe.”  
Jaskier had a far away look in his eyes, head filled with memories better forgotten.

Geralt and Jaskier have both learned that they work best if things aren't discussed. There have been only few instances where they actually talked about something as atrocious as _feelings_. They knew each others body language in and out by now to have conversations in small gestures and eyebrows alone. So Geralt had no idea how to deal with the forelorn looking man, hair wet and exposing too much pale skin that could so very easily be pierced, slashed and marked up.  
The Witcher wordlessly held up one hand, helping his bard out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel.   
“Next time we get our hands on a demijohn, let’s raise our glasses to fucked up childhoods.”  
Jaskier chuckled at that. “Love that plan.”

——————  
When they seated themself down after Viscount Louis Goffrey Pankratz took his place at the head of the table, Geralt inspected the assorted feast first. He was used to skinning his own rabbits and getting an egg and some bread in an inn, with a nice warm stew in the evenings. Lunch for a Viscount apparently consisted of fresh made bread, an assortment of cheese, something that looked like half a pig cut into lunchmeat on still steaming sauerkraut, topped with gravy, surrounded by steamed apples, carrots, mushrooms and potatoes and a seasonal fruit platter filled with grapes, plums, apples, pears, figs and berries as well as nuts. The air was filled with all sorts of spices.

Jaskier was right to bring him: he would eat his fill all right.

The master of the house was served some meat by a manservant and his glass filled with wine, then nodded and took a sip from his glas. Jaskier handed Geralt the bread and butter, obviously giving him the go to tug in. He was too preoccupied with filling his plate in hunger to give the two women sitting on the opposite of Jaskier more than a cursory glance. They were both too young to be the Lady of the house. Maybe Jaskier was sparred this torturous family reunion after all. 

There was silence for a few minutes, the only sounds coming from cutlery and Geralts bad table manners. They obviously thought him a monster already, pretending he wasn’t even there, so he saw no need to exercise restraint. Jaskier threw him a little smile and an eyeroll, reprimanding but approving of his appetite. That was washed away when one of the women spoke up in an authoritative voice. 

“It is high time you took interest in your inheritance again. That stupid wandering of yours sure was a long phase, but your father assured me that this nonsense would wear off soon and you will be at our doors in a sorry state of pity and bankruptcy. And here you are. I am very glad he was right. Since there was no word of you I put that room of yours to better use. Aurelie and Juliette will be tasked with a rearrangement first thing tomorrow. But that is not important right now. Let’s come right to the most important points. Your unwed status has precedence. You are a man going on thirty-”  
“Going on forty, mother.”  
_What?_  
Geralt nearly chocked on a mouthful of sauerkraut.   
“Don’t contradict me, Julian. I am working very hard on my image as a thirty-something with good skin care and you will not ruin that for me.”  
Dark hair in an artistic up-do, eyes a cold gray blue and looking not a day over thirtyfive, the matriarch starred her son down in distaste and thinly veiled disappointment.   
“As I was saying… you are a man in nubile age. And as oldest son and heir it is your responsibility, your obligation, to procure that there will be grandchildren. Not some concubinary bastards I am sure are out there aplenty with your life style. I am talking about a child born in wedlock. In short: If you are not married within the next two years we intend to disown you.”  
Jaskier snorted.   
“Please do. I am sure, Nicolette would appreciate the title and all the responsibilities that comes with it. Wouldn’t you, Letti?”   
Viscountess Isabellas eyes said something between ‘Are you short of a marble?’ and ‘You know your _sister_ is short of a marble, right?’  
“Your sister will have her own household soon.”  
Nicolette seemed to be in her early twenties - but who knew with that bloody family? She played with her long chestnut hair and seemed to be terribly bored of the whole affair. Her eyes had a faraway look.   
“I’m going to marry the duke of Bremervoord. Anglo-something.”  
“Agloval, dear. No way he is going to marry that siren, I’ll make sure of that.”  
“Mermaid.”  
“She could be a pickerel for all I care. As long as she doesn’t have any legs to spread, you are his best candidate. Anyway, the point is that we need at least one heir from you, Julian. So you better stop that philandering of yours this instant and start procreating with that Countess again.”  
Jaskiers face was one of immense pain laced with barely concealed anger.  
“The Countess the Stael is not an option. Neither is the Duchess of Toussaint for that matter. While I enjoy the company of those fine dames, they don’t enjoy mine at the moment. I also don’t think that court life is for me, mother. We have been through this. I have no intention in being a spoiled nobles pet. And I would make a horrible royal consort.”  
“I agree. You know as much about politics as a ghoul knows about cooking.”  
“You would be surprised.”  
“Even if you knew anything about matters of the state, I am sure it is but a peanut of insight. Your cousin Ferrant-”  
“Ferrant will be dead before his legislation ends, mother. The church of Eternal Fire is spreading in Kerack like the plague. As soon as someone notices the family curse, there will be a mob at Ferrants door because they think him a witch of some sort. They will have his head on a stick.”  
“He is a very ingenious politician and good with words, he will think of something that will explain his ageless face easily. He is also very much married and his wife is with child. He will pass on the name de Lettenhove, a career to build on and a legacy to be proud of. My sister is boasting about it every time we speak. I will not loose face just because you are not able to settle down and stick a ring on some nobles finger. So you will stop being a philandering dandy this instant, you insufferable ungrateful brat!”

Geralts hand stuffed a piece of cheese in his mouth and subtly placed itself on Jaskiers knee for silent support under the table. 

The bard took a deep breath and his next words were presented in a dark, icy voice.

“I have never been focused enough, quiet enough, ambitious enough. Nothing was ever enough for you. When I was fourteen and out of temple school you told me that I was nothing without my title or your coin. So we agreed on father paying my tuition for Oxenfurt, as long as I came back with a degree within six years. And I did! With a master degree in seven arts, no less. But you were still not happy. So I went out there, as a nobody, without my name and your coin. I kept nothing but my lute and some clothes, changing my whole identity, never uttering the name de Lettenhove once or flaunting my title. All to prove to you that I could make you proud. Today I return to you as the best in his chosen profession: a master bard, a poet of renown, a part time professor and alumnus summa laude dignatus. People whistle my songs when they open up their shops in the morning, sing my lullabies when they tuck their children into bed. Academics, clergy and plebeians alike read my books. Everyone north of the Yaruga has heard of me. I have immortalized my work in verse. And you are _still not satisfied_? All because I am not _married_?”  
The Viscountess took a long sip of her wine, utterly unimpressed with Jaskiers little speech.  
“No, I am not. Not only because you are still single at your age. You betrayed anything our name stands for, what our title stands for. I always wanted the best for our family and then you dare to besmirch our family tree with your existence by being a _bard_. A wandering adventurer no less, who probably sleeps on the floor or pissed-on mattresses, going about his life without washing or shaving for weeks. Who sings about cubs and wolfs and elves and whatnot, instead of using his education for more pressing matters. You are intelligent. You are charming. You have a decent enough face. And still you decided to live like a common beggar. You could have had it all. A pretty wife, a manor, a title, the land that comes with it. You could be influential. A kings right hand man. Why do you live like this, Julian?”

“Because I love it. This life allows me to be who I want to be. The adventure, the stories, the pain from blisters, the backache that comes from sleeping on floors and sometimes going hungry. I love it all! The performing and composing, the aimless traveling, educating myself day and day again on the actually important things in life. It’s not perfect, far from it. It’s hard and horrible and I fear for my life every other day. But it’s also refreshing and exciting, exhilarating and breathtaking. It makes me feel the most glorious things. Tell me mother, when was the last time you actually _felt_ something?”

“I am feeling something right now, actually. I feel very unappreciated. The least you can do is come to your senses and finally stop this stupid phase you seem to go through. You were welcomed here like guests from the goodness of our hearts. And after we bathed and fed you and-” she threw the Witcher a filthy look”-that _monster_ , which you insist to follow aro-”

The bard was standing now and slammed his fist hard onto the table, startling Nicolette and Viscount Louis. 

“You will not insult my friend. I don’t care how much you throw at me but don’t you dare offend Geralt of Rivia. He is ten times more human than you could ever be. He may critique me, but he listens to my opinions, he comes to my aid when I’m in need. He shows me kindness and accepts me as the person I am. Something that you are obviously unable to do.  
Disown me or not, I really don’t care either way. We will pack up and take our leave as soon as Geralt is healthy enough to travel. Which will be-” he looked at the Witcher questioningly.   
“Within the next two hours.”

The troubadour nodded at him with relief, placing a hand on his good shoulder in gratitude.

He bend down and murmured into his ear. “You sure? If you don’t feel up to it-”  
Geralt nodded and took the cheese platter and the rest of the walnut bread with him. Mostly to be a nuisance. But also because his bard hadn’t eaten anything through this ordeal and he knew that Jaskier liked cheese. 

When Jaskier was through the door, he turned around once more, throwing the family his most menacing face.

“I usually kill monsters for a hefty fee only. I would happily decapitate you for free though, if it was your sons wish. So you better think hard and long about how to proceed from this point on.” 

————

They had packed up and -after Alessandro was thoroughly kissed and beet red from the surprise attack- were back on the Path within the afternoon. 

Jaskier had the next hours fussing about Geralt, making sure he didn’t pull his stitches, insisting on doing most of their work on the road today, including the patch up sewing. The further they removed them self from the Pankratz property, Jaskier was acting more carefree and like himself again. Their usual bickering took the remnants of their past encounter further away from the bards mind, making him at ease and finally loosening this _posture_ , shoulders slumping into their relaxed state, his arms swinging freely by his sides, swagger back in his step. The change from _nobility_ to _bard on the road_ was fascinating, his whole demeanor changing to his playfully cheerful nature again. It made Geralt wonder if this carefree behavior was his actual nature or another role he asumed when fitting.  
“So… family curse?”  
The minstrel made a dismissive gesture.  
Julian Alfred Pankratz - who would always be just Jaskier for him - seemed totally enraptured with the stars coming out. His blue eyes had their usual far away look when he was composing and deep inside his own head, bouncing around stanzas, pivoting rhyme schemes and pirouetting with melodies.   
Geralt sighted.

He would get to the bottom of this, either through bribe, threat or excessive alcohol misuse.

Suddenly a powerful clear tenor rang out into the oncoming night that still smelled like moist grass and thunder. 

> _“Lights will guide you home_  
>  _And ignite your bones_  
>  _And I will try_  
>  _to fix you._

Mhh..” Jaskier crunched up his nose in thought. “Not bad.”  
He grabbed into his bag for his trusty graphite and notebook, sticking his tongue out while writing.  
“Ignite your bones. Odd imagery, maybe? Ignite your soul? Something should ignite. Burning and transforming like …. Like a phoenix. There should be a phoenix in there. Or is that too on the nose? What do you think, Roach?”  
The mares neigh could only be interpreted as diffident.   
“Good point. No phoenix then.”  
Geralts face made this indulgent little smile and head tilting that seemed to slip out whenever Jaskier was extra … jaskierish. 

So his dumbass bard was a loyal not so dumbass bard with an estate to his name and a secret curse he didn't want to talk about. A dozen new bloody puzzles concerning the poet. It would take forever to figure him out. 

“With a crescendo before the last refrain and ending on a pianissimo, I think.” 

Jaskier raised both his arms dramatically over his head, slowly gliding them down again with his elegant hands swaying from side to side to a cadence only he could hear. His eyes were half closed and he nearly stumbled over a branch that had been brought down by the storm. 

Dumbass.  
Ahh well. With his bard being …cursed ageless? He had all the time in the world for the puzzle that was Jaskier, apparently. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferrant de Lettenhove is a royal instigator of Kerrack and a cousin on Jaskiers fathers side. But it's my head canon that de Lettenhove women are manipulative geniuses who put their spawn in powerful positions. Sapkowski would approve, surely. 
> 
> Wanna know the biggest problem I had? Figuring out Netflix Geralts bloody armor. A big thank you to my mom for having an actual diploma in textile processing and explaining stuff like boiled, waxed and water hardened leather and which strap goes where for five hours straight on Facetime, including sketches and everything. She’s an enabler when it comes to historical accuracy. Being nerdy is in my blood, y’all. I didn’t use the myriad of notes and deleted a paragraph with 800 words because I would have BORED YOU TO DEATH! Short version: his armor can be pierced, but cutting it open with shears or a knife-like edge is hard once it hardened. So Jaskier actually had to break of the arrow shaft, strip Geralt of the sword sheaths, shoulder pads, arm braces and gloves, then the body armor (which involves unlacing a corset like thingy in the back), that kinky leather underamor you can see in 1x05 (“Come on, tell me how stuff works”), maybe rip one more shirt and finally remove the arrow head. Oh, the fun.  
> Writer Pro Tip: Just shoot him in the thigh. Geralt will not be naked from the waist up but it will hurt like a bitch, because these high waisted linen/leather pants may look hella sexy but don’t do shit when it comes to defence. Also: probably butt naked underneath. Really small braies or a cod piece max. The usual medieval long linen braies would hinder movement or show in the knee part. You are welcome. 
> 
> Next week: The Countess de Stael.  
> Wear your deerstalker, for there will be a mystery to solve.


	4. Countess de Stael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, the Countess de Stael once said to me that destiny is just the embodiment of the souls desire to grow.”   
> Jaskier, The Witcher S01 Ep05: “Bottled Appetites”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting a day too early. Horrible, I know.   
> But since The Dark Days of Isolation are finally over around here, I thought I would enjoy my first weekend in the sun rather than sitting in front of my computer. 
> 
> The Countess was a hard character for me to pin down: The woman able to steal Jaskiers heart time and time again and inspiring him to write his own songs with 19 had to be something overworldly. A diva with heart and humor, willing and able to deal with Jaskiers energy and put him in his place when he overdid it. After revisiting the draft for the nth time my subconscious gave me Sophia Loren slapping Cary Grant, bewitching Frank Sinatra and slow dancing with Marlon Brando. And the strip tease for Mastroianni, of course. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Enjoy.

“I don’t know why you insist on wearing your fancy doublets - freshly washed no less - before knowingly taking a job that will ruin it anyway.”  
“If I'm to die today, I wish to look smashing for the occasion.”  
Geralt smiled, shook his head disbelievingly at the crimson outfit and left the neverending issue of dispute to rest for the moment.  
“Anything good?”, the White Wolf asked, while feeding Roach half a carrot.  
“Let’s see… someone is missing his wive, but can’t pay shit… a woman giving a good price for honey… a translator job… Oooohhh, a nest of the undead! Let me throw a bomb this time? It looks like so much fun when you make things go boom.”  
“Hell no.” 

Geralt and Jaskier where in yet another small town on their way on the Path, checking out yet another notice board. Sometimes Jaskier felt like history repeating itself every other week. There were so many people in dire need of help, especially now that Nilfgaard troupes were slowly spreading like a disease, bringing only death and doom. Bandits were everywhere, as was famine and hopelessness. Most of these days it was Jaskier playing joyful tunes to lighten the mood and Geralt taking care of minor disturbances. They have been payed with the odd copper here and there, but most days than not they got a meager meal and a thanks for their effort.   
Jaskier was still engrossed in the messages, trying to deceiver a note with horrible handwriting, when a rider galloped into town, wearing the garb of a messenger. When he noticed the two figures he slowed his horse into a trot and stopped his Trakehner besides Roach.

“Excuse me. Are you by chance the Witcher Geralt of Rivia?”  
“May be. Who is asking?”  
“I have a message from one Countess de Stael, who heard about the White Wolf and his chronicler wandering the vicinity. She is in need of your skill set at her maison de plaisance.”  
“May de what now?”  
“It’s a castle,” the bard explained. Jaskier looked like someone just kicked him in the gut. “It’s her residence in summer and hunting season. Very courtly and fancy. You will hate it.”  
“Mh.”  
Geralt remembered some of Jaskiers stories about the loop of heartbreak and reconciliation with the Countess. The bards words for the noble woman had always been in appreciation, though.  
The messenger was obviously told not to take no for an answer.  
“You will be amply rewarded, of course. And you will be honored guests through your stay, you and the minstrel alike. She is looking forward to Master Jaskiers … panache.”   
Jaskiers deprecating behavior changed instantly, his smile hopeful.  
“Now that I think about it, Geralt, you will probably like it. A hot bath, free meals and pleasant company? I think you deserve a bit of pampering after all the hard work of the last weeks. She has big beds with very comfy mattresses. As well as a fine wine cellar with some barrels of Est Est, superb vintage. And let’s face it: you desperately need the money.”  
Geralt sighed deeply in defeat. 

——————————

Upon their arrival a manservant led them into a lavish saloon instantly. A figure rose from a settee with slow elegant movements, greeting the Witcher with grace and respect and was not at all put out about Geralt not bowing down. 

Jaskier however bowed deeply enough for the both of them, kissing her hand. “You are as beautiful as ever, your Highness.”  
The Countess smiled in good humor, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “And you as charming, my nightingale.”  
  
She was an unconventional beauty. Geralt could see the appeal: dark olive skin, black brown hair with heavy locks cut short, making the eyes wander to a long neck. She had big almond shaped eyes, brown but flecked with hazel, slanting a bit down to the nose. Thickly lined with kohl they seemed almost catlike. Her lips were slim, her bottom lip standing out a bit, giving the impression of a constant pout. Her chin had a small little dimple some might usually see only on a mans visage. Now that she was standing Geralt could see how big she was. Not heavy built, but taller than the average woman. The golden dress suggested perky little breasts. She had the smallest waist the Witcher had ever seen on a woman, opening into wide round hips. Geralt now understood the bards statement that she was ‘all geometry’.

“Leave us.”, she commanded to the room and her ladies-in-waiting, servants and all but one guard left the saloon without protest, closing the double doors carefully.

“Thank you for your swift response. I know from your travel companion that you don’t enjoy pussyfooting, Witcher, so I will cut right to the chase: There is a thief in my court and I want him found yesterday. Several valuable pieces of jewelery have been stolen from me as well as others and it keeps happening. Just the other day a pendant was lifted ‘right of the neck’, as Count Lindenstein put it. He was having a bath and an hour later he screamed bloody murder. Viscount da Silva is missing some rings, Lady Agata can’t find her perls and my favorite ear rings are gone. Interestingly enough only the most valuably pieces get lifted. The purloiner left Contessa Deidras false rubies alone, picking out the one bracelet that was actually worth something. She was wearing it at a stroll in the gardens and noticed it gone by tea time. We don’t know how it could have possibly happened, since I have all places heavily guarded by now. Everyone leaving the premises is thoroughly sweeped. So far, nothing. My guards ransacked every servants room and turned every sack of flour. My advisors are stumped and believe it to be a very picky Doppler, changing faces constantly to get access to places he can’t get in otherwise. I demand an answer and the culprit found, Witcher. My courtiers and guests leave in anger, even though I try to reimburse them. The royal household is suspicious of every mouse. My servants are afraid of false accusations, some intent on quitting their jobs. The whole situation is nerve wracking for everyone. Find me that Doppler, Witcher, and I will pay you bountiful.”

Geralt was frowning by now. He could never leave a good mystery alone and this seemed like an interesting puzzle. 

“I will need more information. Details on when and where something went missing.”  
“Of course. The chamberlain has been instructed to answer any questions and open any door you might need opened during your investigation. You are allowed in every room, questioning whomever you want. I have nothing to hide and I am sure neigher does my staff. Find me that thief, Doppler or not.”  
“Certainly, Countess.”   
“Good. You must be tired from the ride. There will be a suite provided for you, of course. Ask the servants for anything you might need.”  
Monsterhunter and minstrel nodded their understanding.   
“Oh and Jaskier? I demand your presence in my private chambers tonight.”

Subtle. She sure had that no nonsense attitude down. 

A manservant was leading them to their rooms after that. Jaskier babbled nervously under his breath, musing about outfit choices and the pros and cons of wearing a new scent, preparing some poetry in his head and reprimanding himself for an overdue hair cut. In between his thoughts he mumbled a contextless “odd shoes.” Geralt didn’t ask what that was about. Every other outfit around here seemed odd to him. Some men were wearing ruffles around their collar as wide as his underarm. Another was wearing brightly colored pantaloons with _stockings_.

And they thought _he_ was the strange one. 

____________________

Geralt was lounging around on the bed - Jaskier had been right, the mattresses were heavenly - musing on a tactic on how to expose that Doppler. He was not prepared for Jaskier storming in, flopping flat eagle and face down on mentioned mattress after his private audience, one arm landing on Geralts chest, the other hanging limply over the edge. 

“That was quick. Not up to the challenge?” 

“Fuck you.”

Geralt scented the air, smelling frustration, sadness and a tinge of arousal, but not Jaskiers intoxicating after-sex-fragrance. 

“Stop sniffing my mood. We talked, mostly. About her marrying some stupid timerian Baron soon and really liking him. She tried snogging me senseless. God, that woman. A goodbye snog, no less! Couldn’t she have waited with that until we leave? Now all I can think about is her being a forbidden fruit.”

“I thought you already broke up some months ago?” 

“That wasn’t really a break up. She just sent me away to ‘internalize the status of our feelings for each other’ and needing space. I thought I did something wrong again, not her getting infatuated with someone. Our break ups were usually my fault. In part. Yeah no, the first time it was totally my fault. I shouldn’t have fallen in love with her chambermaid. I deserved that slap and then some. But the last break up was totally uncalled for. That came out of nowhere. I was at my best behavior. No new love interests. Reciting her favorite poems. Lavishing all the attention on her, as she deserves. And it was NOT my singing, like some people insinuated.” He threw Geralt a grim and punitive look. 

They lay there in silence for a while, Geralt musing on the missing items, Jaskier reminiscing about love lost.

“Don’t you have your own bed for once?”  
“Yes, but the thought of my priceless elven lute being unprotected while I’m asleep leaves me uneasy. I am also very comfortable and too lazy to stand up.”  
Jaskier being unbothered with sleeping in the same bed as a Witcher was nothing new. Geralt was grateful for the show of fearlessness and trust in him time and time again, anyway. The stale scent of sadness slowly changed to contentment, while the troubadour arranged himself into a more comfortable position.

“At least take off your shoes.”

"Feel free. I am too caught up in wallowing in my woes to care."

Geralt pushed him at shoulder and waist, throwing him off the bed.

"Ow."

————

  
They can enter a town as strangers and Jaskier was guaranteed to know half the population before they leave. Being in a place were the bard _already_ new half of the inhabitants by name was a strange new experience. They walked through corridors and were slowed down every ten steps by someone who wanted to greet the minstrel and talk. He did not only know their names but seemed to remember personal tidbits too. Things like ‘how is that leg of yours’ and ‘did you win that Gwint card yet?’. Jaskier seemed to be in his element of being a social butterfly while subtly sprinkling in questions about the thefts. 

Jaskier had told him at breakfast that he knew a lot of the Countess’ court, from servants to advisors, since he was nineteen and had started composing. He got to know them even better through the years, every time the Countess’ and his own hearts eclipsed again. He was ready to rule out about half of the population from the start, insisting on their innocence. Geralt would have had none of it, since the possibility of a Doppler in their midst made _everyone_ suspicious. So they had started to make their rounds through the place. 

After another hour of interaction Geralt took Jaskiers hand and slipped a ring onto a finger. 

Jaskier was stunned. He looked at the silver band for a minute, speechless. 

Geralt could hear the human heart pumping wildly for some reason. 

“I am… flattered and cajoled. And kind of overwhelmed. Asking the actual question would have been nice. And maybe a kiss. But .. Yes. Let’s get married, love. I guess you would prefer a winter wedding?”

Geralt rolled his eyes in fond exaggeration at the bards antics. 

“It’s pure silver. Dopplers can’t hold up their shapeshift when in contact with it. You tend to touch people without you or your speaking partner actively noticing. In the last ten minutes alone you wrapped an arm around the cook, touched that girls lower back and … fondled one guards biceps. If it is a Doppler, we will find him in no time this way.”

“Oh.” 

Jaskier was still starring at his ringed finger in a daze.

“I also think it’s better we split up. There is only so much inane chitchat I can deal with on a daily basis. I am going to look for that chamberlain and will ask the nobles some uncomfortable questions. You carry on with your shmoozing.”

“Alright. See you around, Geralt.”

“Mh.”

_______________

  
It was in the late afternoon when Geralt finally had some leads, a list of suspects in hand. He was on his way to the stables to see after Roach for a bit, before diving into work.

When he came into the inner courtyard he noticed Jaskier talking animatedly with a priest in front of the chapel. His colorful blue garb stood in stark contrast to the white and red of the priests frock.

_A bard and a priest meet at court. Jaskier could probably make a joke out of that._

Suddenly there was a commotion breaking up their conversation. A young manservant screamed at a servant girl by the kitchen entrance.   
“Stop following me around like a puppy! Just leave me alone, already!”   
The manservant stormed away in direction of the chapel, saw the priest and Jaskier and changed course. Maybe in search of a quiet place to calm down his temper.   
The servant girl stood stock still at the kitchen entrance, heavy tears running down her face by the vociferous and very public rejection she just received.   
Geralt rolled his eyes. Drama. He remembered why he hated court.  
Jaskier was by the girl in an instant, though, producing a white handkerchief from somewhere and speaking in a low voice.   
“Now let’s have non of that, my pretty. That boy should learn some manners and proper ways how to talk to a lovely lady like you. Let’s wipe away those tears now so I can see what he is missing out of. Oh my. Look at you. Your freckles are the cutest. If he doesn’t see what a beauty you are he certainly doesn’t deserve you to begin with.”   
He pressed a very chaste kiss on her freckled nose which made her finally stop crying in surprise.   
“May I ask the name of the beautiful freckled maiden?”  
She sniffed some more, and answered in a near whisper. “Maria.”  
“Maria… Maria, Maria, Maria…”  
He murmured the name over and over as if in trance, wandering off a few steps.   
“The most beautiful sound I ever heard. Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria. All the beautiful sounds of the world in a single word..”, he singsonged. 

> _"Maria, Maria, Maria_   
>  _I've just met a girl named Maria_   
>  _And suddenly that name_   
>  _Will never be the same to me_   
>  _Maria!_

He danced around the courtyard as if he just found the love of his life, serenading the mousy servant girl in that clear tenor of his for all the court to hear. 

> _I've just kissed a girl named Maria_   
>  _And suddenly I've found_   
>  _How wonderful a sound can be!_   
>  _Maria!_

He grabbed the next person - which was the priest - waltzing a few steps through the yard. The whole thing was ridiculous. Maria realized that, too and giggled behind her hand, her face flushed from all the attention. 

> _Say it loud and there's music playing_   
>  _Say it soft and it's almost like praying_

Jaskier _dipped_ the priest, who thankfully took the whole scene with good humour, but escaped when he had the chance. 

> _Maria_   
>  _I'll never stop saying Maria!_   
>  _Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria_   
>  _Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria_
> 
> _MariARGH!”_

Jaskier was suddenly drenched in soapy water, spluttering and swiping wet hair from his eyes. “RUDE!”

Jaskier looked up to find his attacker. An older woman with a wooden washing tub stood at an opened window on the second floor. She looked smug and very happy with herself. With graying hair under a bonnet, ample bussom corsetted in a well worn light brown dress and a well rounded face. She looked like the very picture of a matron. Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if she hit unwelcome guests with a frying pan and pulled rascals by the ears. 

“Oh, Zuzanna, is that you? You sure are a sight for sore and soapy eyes, dear Zuzanna. How is the family?”  
“Not interested.”   
Jaskier pouted. The fact that he was looking like a drenched cat only emphazised his played indignation.   
“What did I ever do to you, Zuzanna?”  
“Being born just to annoy me.”  
“Twerp.”  
“Twit.”  
They smiled warmly at each other in familiarity.   
“Great to see you, Mama Zuzanna.”  
“You too, boy.”

————————

  
Geralt heard odd noises. It sounded like a pig squieking rhythmically, only in lower octaves. Then he heard a man giggling. Geralt was pretty sure he knew that giggle. He followed the sound to a storage room door.

“I am sorry. I didn’t laugh down on you. You are magnificent. Carry on.” 

After a while the odd squieking started up again. Now there came a full belly laugh. 

“I am sorry, but are those your actual sex noises? Are you - oh no, come on, that was no critique, I just wasn’t prepared for-” 

The door crashed open and a heavily muscled blonde stormed out, arranging a shirt into his hose. 

“Mateo, I am sorry! I didn’t- ah screw it.” He looked after the guard in longing. “How unfortunate. He had such a fine physique. Hello Geralt.” The Witcher could only glare in disbelieve at the bards nonchalant behavior. 

“Anything new on the intimidation front?”

“No leads. I am not so sure about the whole monster angle anymore.”

“Well, the palace guards are pretty convinced about the Doppler, though, because they are very confident they didn’t miss anything. They have a strict rotation policy, they vet anyone including each other. And they are all devoted and loyal to the Countess.”   
Jaskier was practically lounging against the alcove, very at ease with himself and not at all constipated that he had literally cockblocked himself a minute ago.

“How many guards did you fuck to find that out?”

A hurt look flittered across his face for the blink of an eye before his usual sunny smile was blown in the Witchers face. 

“You have your muscles, swords and glaring and I have my charm, looks and brains. There are a lot of tactics in interrogation other than grunting and growling. And I think mine are more fun than yours.”

Geralt didn’t comment on that.

“So, no Doppler in the guards or the staff. It has to be one of the court guests, then, probably hiding the jewels under a loose floor board or something, because according to Mateo no contraband left the castle.”

They there both mulling over the facts and the evidence. 

“I was thinking…” Jaskier was leaning way back on a wall, his whole body presenting itself like a meal for the taking, all long lines, open demeanor and warm soft skin. He caressed the ring, deep in thought. His embroidered silk shirt was still open, showing of an athletic front. Geralt wondered for a second if he knew what he was doing or if this was his subconscious being at ease in his skin.   
Sometimes Geralt was a bit envious about that. How the bard accepted himself the way he was. No regrets. No pretending. 

“If this really is a Doppler, why don’t we just let Countess de Stael throw a fancy dinner party and observe who doesn’t use the silver spoon to eat their soup?”

“That is… not a bad idea, actually.” 

———-

The Countess approved. Just the next day, the whole court was bustling about, preparing for the ‘feast in honor of the White Wolfs deeds’. Geralt was not amused.  
Hunters were coming in, bringing fasans and bigger game. Millers were delivering extra flour. Farmhands arrived with eggs, fruit, vegetables and big haunches of meat to feed a small army. The guards dealing with security were overwhelmed. So Geralt had positioned himself in the courtyard near the delivery entrance, sniffing around for unusual proceedings or shifty looking patrons. Jaskier was keeping him company, plucking on his lute and practicing his ‘greatest hits’ of the White Wolfs adventures for this evenings performance.

“Oh shit. Quick, make use of those lovely broad shoulders of yours and hide me.”

Jaskier scrambled behind Geralt, hiding his lithe form behind mentioned shoulders as well as he could.

“Whats going on?”

“See those twins in the green dresses with the fans? Weronika and Marcelina. I may or may not have slept with both. That man on the left? Their father, Count Mazur. He was very intent on decapitating me when he found out.”

“May or may not?”

“Look at them! They look identical. How would you know, which one you ravished in the dark cloak room? Or a dimly lit alcove. Oh, and the gardens on a demilune. Oh no, wait. That lovely night in the garden was Ewa, a lady-in-waiting, now that I think about it. She had these delicate ankles, that-”

“Is there someone you _didn’t_ fuck around here?”, interrupted Geralt in anger.

“Well, yes. You, for example. But the day is young.”

He grabbed Geralt by the waist to use him as a shield if necessary, peaking over tense shoulders.

“Sweet Melitele, why won’t they leave already?”

His warm breath tickled Geralts neck, Jaskiers subtle scent of oranges, thyme and rosemary swirling around his head like a balmy breeze.  
Geralt blamed this squishy feeling in his guts on his too big breakfast.

————

The dinner itself was over, all people mingling now, dancing and drinking wine in the red saloon.  
All people? Well no.   
Our dear Witcher was brooding in a corner. He was seriously pissed. 

There had been no unusual behavior from any of the guests or staff. The servants had presented the silverware filled with the finest delicacies without a flinch or show of pain. The aristocrats had used their cutlery like the stuck up snobs they were: from the outside to the inside, choosing the right fork for every course, not even registering the years worth of salary in silver surrounding their fine porcelain plates. 

Geralt was at the end of his wits here and his patience was wearing thin. So it was none of the nobility. That would be odd to beginn with, since they all probably took a swim in their vaults filled with riches every sunday. 

“Geralt?”   
“Not now, Jaskier.”  
But since the guards, who meticulously vetted anyone coming or going, never found any jewels leaving the place, there had to be some kind of magic at play here. Maybe it was not a Doppler but a witch or sorcerer with a portal? Ensnaring minds or slipping potions into drinks, so they would forget about a robbery taking place.   
“Geralt.”  
“WHAT?” He couldn’t help but snap at the bard in anger. He was trying to earn a bunch of money here and all the minstrel had done in the days at court was flirting and sleeping around, instead of helping.   
“Geralt, I just danced with a woman.”  
Geralt was ready to hit something. Preferably the bards pretty face.   
“Yes Jaskier and I really don’t care!”  
“No, you don’t understand! Just listen for a second. I just danced with a noble woman and she had calloused hands.” 

Jaskier was looking at his own hands mesmerized like they presented the answer to a most complex puzzle. Geralts own gaze was drawn to the silver ring for a second. It suited Jaskiers ring finger nicely. 

“So what?”

“It’s not a Doppler. No monster or magic. Just a totally human band of thieves.”

Geralts bad mood evaporated. He was intrigued by Jaskiers assessment, thinking that option over.

“What makes you say that?”

“I just danced with a woman who claimed to be the youngest daughter of a cousin twice removed from a prince-elector or some nonsense. But she had all those callouses on her hands and those really tiny cuts on her fingers. Noble women don’t have hands like that, because they don’t do shit. I am pretty sure, she usually works with hot metal. Maybe a gold smith? She kept looking at the high table, which I didn’t think was suspicious at first, because both the Countess - and that baron of hers too, I have to admit - look delicious today. But then I realized she didn’t look at them but behind them, at the manservant with the shoes.”

“Huh?”

“The one who was leading us to our rooms when we arrived? And who so rudely fobbed Maria off? He wore very nice nappa leather boots. No lowly manservant can usually afford nappa leather, Geralt! I am pretty sure that the woman pretending to be nobility has the eye for the good jewels, lifting the occasional piece when she has the opportunity to cause further confusion, but mostly picking out their next target. And while she is busy distracting the victim, going on a walk or drinking tea, flirting or whatever, the manservant uses that moment to loot the treasure out of the private rooms. No one would even question him, because that’s what manservants do: going into private rooms, arranging baths, picking up laundry. But he knows that he will be searched by the guards at certain times in certain places. It would also be suspicious if he talked to the noble woman too often - any talking to nobles, really - and he can’t leave the palace regularly. So both probably give their treasure to a third person. A person who is beyond suspicion and can easily come and go as he pleases. Someone who can talk to nobles and servants alike without raising suspicion. Like…”

Jaskiers eyes widened. “…like a priest.”

Geralt was frowning now. “The priest?”

“YES! It has to be, because he was the nicest priest I ever met. It was unnatural. Priests usually detest me because I and my trade represent everything they prohibit. The drinking, the woman and … well, I am pretty sure every religion has some really dark thoughts on sodomy. But this one was really good natured when I got a little overboard with my spontaneous dance number in the inner courtyard.”

Geralt thought about that for a second.

“And all three of them could meet in the chapel on occasion, since it is neutral grounds. Okay, I bite. Let’s pretend it is the priest. How does he get the valuables out of the castle?”

“The robe? You could hide pretty much anything under that. Or maybe it’s in this big tome he is always running around with. The big red one, yey high”- he gestured out the proportions of the big book -”‘Sacred Scriptures of Eternal Fire’. It looks damn heavy, but he hauls that around like it weights nothing. What if it’s hollow? I bet the guards never looked at that book twice. Plus he leaves the premises every day at noon on the dot. Tending to the poor and hungry, he said. Poor and hungry my ass. He is probably fencing the merchandise!”

The Witcher blinked two times. 

“And you got all of this from some callouses and nappa boots.”

Jaskier just shrugged, his face bright with excitement, a sheepish smile on his lips. 

“You know monsters, I know people. Wasn’t that always the premise of our dynamic, my dear Witcher?”

Geralt couldn’t take his eyes of his bard.  
His cerulean eyes burning bright with genius, cheeks flushed, glowing with glee, smelling of excitement, heart beating fast but steady.

Jaskier on the hunt. 

The White Wolf had often wondered, what made the bard this attractive to people and suddenly he very much _got it_.   
A feral part of him wanted to rip the ridiculous clothes of this fabulous, talented, intelligent, observing, caring man and _claim_. 

Geralt swallowed hard. His sexuality was very confused. He needed to sort that out. 

But priorities. 

“Okay then, let’s catch some bandits.”

Jaskier deflated a bit at that. “Yeah, no. Let’s just tell the Countess. The guards can deal with them.” 

“What? Why?”

“While I really love our chases through forests and under bushes, I have absolutely no intention to chase after a woman and a priest, crying ‘In the name of the crown, halt!’. That’s just too ridiculous, even for my low standards and no one would believe the story anyway. Also: maybe you haven’t noticed, but my pants are very tight this evening,” - Geralt had noticed. How he could even dance in those was beyond him - “and ripping them open while running would be very unfortunate for everyone involved, because I am not wearing any undergarments.”

Gerats brain needed a moment to get that image out of his head. 

“So I shall just… inform the lovely Countess de Stael about our findings. And showing of my finely toned thighs and behind from all the walking you make me do while I’m at it. Making her regret her decision to dump me. Me! A sexy genius who just made her problem go away. Grand plan! I will do that right now.”

And off he went, doing just that.   
Showing of his very nice bum, indeed. 

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

Everything was very confusing right now.  
He would deal with that later, though.   
Priorities, he told himself again. 

After Jaskier had sauntered to the Countess, whispering in her ear for a good ten minutes, and subtly pointing out the fake noblewoman, the culprits were dealt with quickly and without too much fanfare. The temperamental servant had made a little scene when he was grabbed by two heavily build guards, kicking and screaming, but what actually had the courtiers whispering was the young women and the priest being escorted outside. 

If they were lucky they would be missing a hand tomorrow. But Geralt guessed they would probably end up on the gallows. He hoped they were gone before Jaskier would have to see that gruesome end playing out right before him. 

The Countess rose and hold an impromptu speech about justice, praising the White Wolf more than once. Seemingly the bard had downplayed his own role in this, because he was only mentioned at the very end of the long winded oration when she asked the master bard to play his newest composition for the occassion. 

Jaskier seemed to be put out for just a second, before bowing low and indulging her. He swung his lute from his back into his hands in a familiar motion that had do be muscle memory be now, cleared his throat, and waited for the attendant crowd to settle down in silence. 

>   
>  _I've heard it said_   
>  _That people come into our lives for a reason_   
>  _Bringing something we must learn_   
>  _And we are led_   
>  _To those who help us most to grow_   
>  _If we let them_   
>  _And we help them in return_   
>  _Well, I don't know if I believe that's true_   
>  _But I know I'm who I am today_   
>  _Because I knew you..._

He had started to circle around the room, throwing glances and knowing little smiles to everyone in the room, showering them in attention, as if he had written this song just for them personally. 

> _It well may be_   
>  _That we will never meet again_   
>  _In this lifetime_   
>  _So let me say before we part_   
>  _So much of me_   
>  _Is made of what I learned from you_   
>  _You'll be with me_   
>  _Like a handprint on my heart_   
>  _And now whatever way our stories end_   
>  _I know you have re-written mine_   
>  _By being my friend..._

He catched the Witchers attentive gaze, his eyes going just a bit softer, his smile a bit brighter, before he bellowed out the powerful refrain and settled his gaze on his left hand in concentration, working out a yet unfamiliar string of chords. 

> _Like a ship blown from its mooring_   
>  _By a wind off the sea_   
>  _Like a seed dropped by a skybird_   
>  _In a distant wood_   
>  _Who can say if I've been changed for the better?_   
>  _But because I knew you_   
>  _I have been changed for good_

When he looked up again, his face was apologetic, glancing at the Countess, then at some particular faces in the audience. 

> _And just to clear the air_   
>  _I ask forgiveness_   
>  _For the things I've done you blame me for_   
>  _But then, I guess we know_   
>  _There's blame to share_   
>  _And none of it seems to matter anymore_
> 
> _Who can say if I've been_   
>  _Changed for the better?_   
>  _But because I knew you_   
>  _I have been changed_   
>  _For good._

He was standing in front of the Countess again, bowing deeply after the last note was fading away. When she extended her hand for a kiss, he took it.   
She gazed upon him almost reverendly.   
“Thank you, my little nightingale.”   
“Thanks all to you! For being my muse for all these years. And now I have to say my goodbyes, I am afraid. Monsters to hunt and stories to tell.”

He placed the ladies hand upon the barons on the table, took another bow and left them to their own devices. 

The patrons in the saloon were mingling again, discussing the happenings of the night, when Jaskier was sidling into Geralts dark corner again, sipping a glass of Beauclair White and pressing a big stein of Rivian kriek into his hands. Jaskier very much knew that he, too, would have prefered a wine but probably did it for the shits and giggles. 

“Okay then. Another job done. Were to next, my dear Witcher? Oh and I nearly forgot-” he removed the silver ring, placed it in Geralts palm and closed his big sword calloused fingers around it gently.   
“Keep it save. Maybe you want me to wear that again some day.”

———————

Geralt stood on a mountain peek. Very much alone and his mind whirling with so much feelings, thoughts and confessions. 

His Child Surprise, who he obviously could not escape.   
  
Yennefer. The Last Wish. And the odd attraction he wasn’t sure to be natural or magical anymore.

And Jaskier. Who hadn’t deserved any of the verbal lashing. He had been so confused. Wanted to push the bard away rather than to deal with these complicated emotions. 

The one person not bound to him by destiny or some spur of the moment wish, but standing by Geralt anyway. 

_“Maybe someone out there will want you.” “I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.” “And yet… here we are.”_  
 _ **“Geralt, could you hug me? For luck.”**_  
“It’s not fair cos you make me ache you bastard.”   
_“I don’t care how much you throw at me but don’t you dare offend Geralt of Rivia.”_  
 **“Yes. Let’s get married, love.”**  
 _"I’ve heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason.”_  
 _ **“Keep it save. Maybe you want me to wear that again some day.”**_  
 _“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while. Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it? Life is too short. Do what pleases you. While you can.” “Trying to work out your next song?” “No just… trying to work out what pleases me.”_

**“See you around, Geralt.”**

“Fuck! Fuck FUCK FUUUUUCK!”, he screamed into the valley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No native speaker, no beta, no shame. 
> 
> Jaskiers courtly performances:   
> Maria from West Side Story. I like the version of Mark Seibert.   
> For Good from Wicked. I suggest you open Youtube right now and look for Daryl Ong. Also Sam Tsui & Nick Pitera. 
> 
> This was a 5k monster of a chapter. The next one will be even longer, so thank you for sticking it out. You are awesome.   
> Please don’t be strangers. Your comments give me life.
> 
> Next Week, obviously: Geralt.


	5. Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quest for a phantom, a daydream, an absolutely impossible ideal. We set off in pursuit like idiots, like madmen. But I didn't utter a word of complaint, Geralt. I didn't call you a madman. I didn't ridicule you. For you had hope and love in you. You were being guided by them on this reckless mission. I was too, as a matter of fact. But I've caught up with the mirage, and I was lucky enough that the dream came true. My mission is over. I've found what is so difficult to find. And I intend to keep it. Is that insanity? It would be insanity to give it up and let it slip through my fingers.'  
> \- Dandelion to Geralt, The Lady of the Lake by Andrzej Sapkowski

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, guys. I was supposed to post this weeks ago, but I just wasn’t happy. I hate turning in work I am not satisfied with. It's still missing someting and I don't feel my usual flow when I went over the last draft, it's kind of stodgy. Editing and rewriting over and over grated on my nerves, tho and I don’t want you to think I abandoned this. So again, sorry for the delay. I promise you a bonus chapter in return. Deal?
> 
> Here are the songs:   
> \- Hobbit Drinking Medley by Peter Hollens (it’s on Spotify but you should watch the video on YT for the enjoyment.)  
> As soon as we are in Velen, you could add some background music if you like.   
> -Children are our Favourite from The Witcher Netflix soundtrack.   
> -Blood on the Coblestones by Mikolai Stroinski (Witcher 3:Wild Hunt Original Game Soundtrack)   
> OR, I dare you, ASMR breathing.  
> \- The english version of the Wolven Storm from The Witcher 3:Wild Hunt Original Game Soundtrack. But in the cover version by Aidan King on YT! That man sure knows how to fondle a lute.  
> \- Dwarven Stone Upon Dwarven Stone by Adam Skorupa (Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings OGS) for the end scene.
> 
> So here it is. My pièce de résistance. Have mercy.  
> Oh, and: You remember that note in the first chapter? That warning about violence? Okay, good. Proceed.

Oxenfurt - colorful, joyful, noisy, liberate and sweet-smelling town full of miracles, shrewed people, innovations, scholars and academy students. Needless to say that where there are students, there was also a wide assembly of bars, inns and taverns to host them. For there is no faster way to gain knowledge than in a tavern tankert- in vino veritas, and all that.  
There was one tavern in particular that night, where a band of dwarfs and a rowdy group of young students tried to take that proverb to the test. The loud singing could be heard even three streets over, where the jezebels danced along to warm their feet. One lonesome traveler peeped through the windows of said inn, observing the spectacle with interest and a small smile on his face. 

>   
>  _Oh you can search far and wide_   
>  _You can drink the whole town dry_   
>  _But you'll never find a beer so brown_   
>  _As the one we drink in our hometown_
> 
> _You can keep your fancy ales_   
>  _You can drink'em by the flagon_   
>  _But the only brew for the brave and true_   
>  _Comes from the Green Dragon!_

The Masterbard Jaskier - clothed in a poufy doublet of blue and crimson - was in his element that night. He always enjoyed when dwarfs where in attendance, for they were easy to please with rowdy drinking songs and saucy jigs, always paying well and singing along enthusiastically with their dark bass voices. They usually infected the other patrons with their good mood. High on laughing and performing, Jaskier fluttered around the place, jumping on benches and having the time of his life while being paid for it. Not that he needed the money - he was in demand at every wedding, court affair or baptism in all the northern countries by now, mostly choosing his jobs as he pleased. 

>   
>  _Hey! Ho! to the bottle I go_   
>  _To heal my heart and drown my woe_   
>  _Rain may fall and wind may blow_   
>  _But there still be many miles to go_   
>  _Sweet is the sound of the pouring pain_   
>  _And the stream that falls from hill to plain_   
>  _Better than rain or rippling brook_   
>  _Is a mug of beer inside this Took!_

The dwarfs cheered, lifting their ales in appreciation. When Jaskier grabbed a spoon, clacking it against the bar countertop and stomping a foot, the halflings cached on quickly, doing their own stomping, smashing their steins on the tables.

> _Blunt the knives, bend the forks_   
>  _Smash the bottles and burn the corks_   
>  _Chip the glasses and crack the plates_   
>  _That's what your innkeeper hates_   
>  _Cut the cloth, trail the fat_   
>  _Leave the bones on the bedroom mat_   
>  _Pour the milk on the pantry floor_   
>  _Splash the wine on every door_   
>  _Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl_   
>  _Pound them up with a thumping pole_   
>  _And when you've finished, if they are whole_   
>  _Send them down the hall to roll_

He winked at the barmaid, who just shook her head in fond exasperation. 

  
“ _Thats what your innkeeper hates!_ To be continued! You are a lovely audience!”, he shouted over the cheering commotion and slinked on a bar stool, catching his breath. 

He was thinking about singing one of his own works, ‘Priests can be beasts’, next. He only played that one when the crowd had the right ratio of ‘not too drunk but already pissed’ and ‘fuck the clerics, we are all going to hell anyway’, when a big tankard of ale was put under his nose. 

“From your fans.”

“Frances, my dearest barmaid in all of Redania! I love you and your very fine establishment, but your ale is kind of shit.”   
The heavy build innkeeper rolled her eyes, answering him with a very heartfelt “Fuck you, buttercup.”

He leaned across the counter, tugging at one of her dark locks, that started to show some gray but made her even more attractive in Jaskiers eyes.

“How long do we know each other now, Frances? Three years? Four? Doesn’t that warrant me to drink something of your finer goods? I know exactly what you are hiding in that cellar, my dear. Your face had the same lovely shade of rosé like the wine you pushed me against in passion. Your lips tasted as sweet as well. Shouldn’t we open one of those bottles in remembrance of that phenomenal night of love and fervor? For old times sakes?”

“Ahhh, yes. I remember that.” She was leaning over as well, showing of her cleavage and smirking devilishly. “You know, what I also remember very vividly?”

She fiddled with the collar of his doublet, hypnotizing him with her brown chocolate eyes and plush bottom lip. She took her finely toned arms to use, with which she usually lugged heavy crates and barrels around, and pulled him within an inch of her face.

“You never payed that tab.”

Jaskiers flirty smile died quickly, changing to horror, then to apologetic sheepishness, already fiddling for his purse to pay his due and then some. When he handed over a hefty sum of crowns, he stuttered out heartfelt words of apology and penance.  
She sweeped the coins of the counter in a versed motion, patting Jaskiers cheek. 

“You are lucky that you’re cute, buttercup. Drink your fucking ale.”

While she made herself busy, Jaskier appreciated her arms some more.  
 _Sweet Melitele, that woman. Strength of an ox._  
He thought back on the moment she noticed that he liked to be manhandled a bit. That muscled calves… ah, sweet memories. 

There was a change in atmosphere in the bar, less boisterous, subdued. 

When Jaskier glanzed over his shoulder he instantly recognized the reason to be the white haired man and the two swords that came with him. 

“Ah, fuck.”  
“Friend or foe?”  
“Worse.”  
“Ex?”  
“Of sorts.”

Frances sighed in sympathy, pulling out two small earthenware tumblers and a bottle of her mean Samogon Jaskier knew she made out of potatoes in a little shed behind the tavern. She poured them two fingers each and knocked her own drink down in one smooth motion with only a minimal grimace.

“No blood or cum on the tables. I just got those bated. Tits up, buttercup.”

He drowned his own drink, retching and contorting his face while the alcohol burned down his throat. 

And then Geralt - sporting a white beard that made him look even more raggedly handsome - stood beside him, doing his usual one-over check up look to see if Jaskier was bleeding anywhere or missing a limb.   
What a farce.   
The thing hurting and bleeding was his heart, because a part he used for twenty-two fucking years has been broken in a thousand peaces in the mountains of Caingorn in 1262. But for all his witchery senses, that Geralt did not see.

There was probably some ironic message in there. That thought had to go into his notebook, though. He had verses about heartbreak in there that would give him materials for a lifetime or two by now.

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

The White Wolf looked at him, as if unsure what to do or say. 

When the silence stretched, Jaskier suddenly realized that Geralt hoped for him to start a conversation. Because that’s how it always went. Himself babbling on about some thing or another, initiating, while Geralt hummed and grudgingly accepted his companionship.   
The fucking _nerve._  
All he ever wanted after that whole debacle that was the dragon hunt was an apology. 

Jaskier knew that Geralt probably didn’t mean any off that shit he had accused him off. He said it in anger and hurt. But it still stung.   
When he made is lonely way down that mountain pass he had thought about Geralts words. Had debated with himself if he was really the sole reason for Geralts miserable situation. He stopped that after an hour because he realized that it was just ridiculous. 

He hadn’t been the one to spit destiny in the face. 

Or had the crazy idea to fish for a djinn to get rid of insomnia, instead of trying some lavender oil and a cup of valerian tea like any sane person would have. And they said he was the unreasonable one. 

And after some more deep thinking he realized that Geralt had done this every time, using him like a punching bag whenever he was in one of his moods. 

Jaskier had decided than and there that he was sick of unrequited love. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to pick up that fragile thing that was their friendship. Not until he had received an honest apology, at least.   
And now the Witcher had the audacity to just stand there and wait for Jaskier to make the first move?   
It irked him. Mostly because he knew that Geralt was actually a very nice person under all that ‘no emotions’ shtick of his. As soon as he had to deal with his own feelings he had the emotional range of a mountain troll.

“I fucking loved you!”, he wanted to scream. “I loved you for so many years and you send me away because you had a horrible day. You complained about everything I did on a regular basis: the singing, the talking, the lovers, the clothes. You were unhappy with what I represented. Who I am. While I accepted who you are, trying to lighten that weight on your shoulders by helping with the things I could help with. I’ve given you my support, forgiveness and faith time and time again. And you pushed me away when I wasn’t comfortable for you. Calling me names and insulting me whenever you were angry with something. Never apologizing for hurtful words. For any of it, really. For casting me aside as soon as you saw violet eyes and smelled lilacs and gooseberries. For the fist in the gut on the day we met. The insistence of ‘not friends’. The filling less pie.”  
He didn’t say any of that.   
Instead he stood there and waited for Geralt to finally make the first move. He was not willing to read between the lines in one of his grunts, accepting what he could only assume was maybe a bidding for forgiveness.

When the stretched silence became more and more awkward, Geralt finally managed to find his words. 

“I missed you.”

Ah fuck. The heart wants what the heart wants.

Jaskier closed his eyes, trying to hold on to his anger instead of caving in just like that. 

“Good start, Geralt. But if you want to play the three-words-or-less game, then I suggest you try some more combinations.”

“I am sorry.”

The Wolf said this with earnestness and heartfelt remorse in his beautiful yellow eyes. Jaskier felt his resolve weaken and cleared his throat to steady his voice. 

“Okay. That’s a good one. Maybe one more? Three times’ the charm and all.”

Geralt opened and closed his lips like a fish, trying out truths and debating on what he was willing to say.

“This blessing sucks”, he finally whispered. 

Jaskier let out a disbelieving little hurt laugh.

“Yes, it does indeed.” 

The bards sad knowing little smile was answered with a rueful expression, golden eyes hopeful.

Ah shit. Who was he kidding.

“I accept your apology, pathetic as it was, because I’m in a good mood and slightly tipsy. But I demand a lot more groveling before you are in my good graces again, dear witcher.”  
Jaskiers eyes drifted down to the prominent beard. He couldn’t help himself when his hand raised itself slowly and caressed the facial hair.  
“Sweet Melitele, and the audacity of wearing that thing of beauty. That’s not fair.”  
He felt out the texture of it in fascination, not at all as scrubby and bristly as it looked. He was startled out of his reverence when Geralt _leaned into his touch_. The golden cat eyes were half lidded and dilated, an odd glint in them, that Jaskier had never seen before. 

“Please come with me, Jaskier. The Path… had not been the same. And I would really like you to come to Kaer Morhen to meet Ci-”  
Jaskier pressed two fingers over his lips. The bards expression was sharp.  
“Don’t, Geralt. The walls have ears. There are enough rumors flying around as it is. I am happy for you and glad you got your head out of your arse. And while I really appreciate the sentiment and would like nothing more than to … join you for this new adventure, I am afraid I must refuse for the time being. I have some obligations to fulfill. But as soon as I am done with those I will get a message to you.”

Geralt nodded slowly, then cautiously leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together.

They both took deep breaths, reacquainting themselves with the others scent and being. 

“Be quick about it,” Geralt grumbled in his usual commanding tone and as quick as a snake striking its prey, pecked Jaskier on the corner of his lips, turned around and slowly slalomed his way through the countless patrons to the door. 

Jaskiers escalating heart beat could probably be heard a mile wide. He wouldn’t dare hope. But for now he could not contain the wide grin spreading over his face. He should put that excess energy to good use before his heart exploded. He grabbed his lute and positioned himself on the prominent spot between the tables.

Playing a chord, he drew the attention of the loud bar population on him again. 

“LADIES AND-”- a philosophy student gave of a very loud and long belch, making the collective table laugh and congratulating him on his impressive burp - “well, obviously not gentlemen, since I don’t see any around.”  
That send the whole tavern roaring into laughter again.   
“A JIG!”, Jaskier proclaimed and waited for the worst commotion to calm down. 

> _There's an inn, there's an inn_   
>  _There's a merry old inn beneath the old grey hill_   
>  _And there they brew a beer so brown_   
>  _That the Man in the Moon himself came down_   
>  _One night to drink his fill_   
>  _The ostler has a tipsy cat_   
>  _That plays a five-stringed fiddle_   
>  _And up and down he saws his bow_   
>  _Now squeaky high_   
>  _Now purring low_   
>  _Now sawing in the middle_

While still plucking quickly on his lute which would have put every sixth semester musical student in all of Oxenfurt to shame and jealousy, he also started to do something complicated with his feet, swinging his calves back and forth, changing from tiptoes to heels in fast succession. 

> _So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle_   
>  _A jig that would wake the dead_   
>  _He squeaked and sawed and he quickened the tune_   
>  _While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon_   
>  _"It's after three!" he said_

He noticed Geralt throwing him another long appreciative look before leaving the bar. And not one moment too soon, for Jaskier noticed his contact finally slipping into the tavern. The man was dressed like every other student, but his stance screamed military and he was way too clean shaven to pass as a scholar. Jaskier suppressed rolling his eyes. Dijkstra may have this spy thing down, but some of his agents - Jaskier himself included, he was willing to admit - really needed to work on their game.  
He quickened the tempo once more, dancing between tables, smiling and winking.

> _Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle_   
>  _The dog began to roar_   
>  _The cows and the horses stood on their heads_   
>  _The guests all bounded from their beds_   
>  _And danced upon the floor_   
>  _The round Moon rolled behind the hill_   
>  _As the Sun raised up her head_   
>  _She hardly believed her fiery eyes_   
>  _For though it was day, to her suprise_   
>  _They all went back to bed_

While the populace of the tavern was still applauding and cheering, too focused on being merry, Jaskier slipped his contact a small scroll - his last mark has been a tough one, he had to seduce an ugly nilfgaardian officer to get those military secrets - receiving one in return.   
“Better dress warm”, the spy murmured. “Velen is a swamp this time of year, but it’s even worse around Bleobheris.”

—————

How right that had been. He was relieved that he didn’t bring his priceless elven lute but the spare he used for teaching. The humidity was already feeding on the spruce wood. The condense water slowly sinking into the corpus made the lute more dead sounding day by day to his ear. That was not okay but bearable. Most people didn’t notice the difference anyway. 

Sitting down under the ancient oak in the glade known as the Seat of Friendship, he enjoyed the serenity of a totally different kind of audience. It was relaxing to sit amongst druids and acolytes, trading stories, wisdom and songs. They had greeted him with open arms, pressing a crown of dandelions on his head and a cup of mead into his hand.   
He couldn’t help but remember the last time he sat among druids. He reminisced about a valley and a fire burning bright, Geralt his usual brooding self while he sang and danced among robe clad folk under a magical Belleteyn moon. That was what tempted him to sing part of the White Wolfs song cycle on this equally lovely day under the protecting branches of Bleobheris. Serenading brave heroes fighting under full moon light, chanting about kikimoras, alghouls, nightwraiths and barghests.  
It was also refreshing and insightful to hear about matters of state from the wise druids perspectives. So he responded in kind with some of his more political ballads, The Lion Cub of Cintra among them.   
Stupid, really. He usually tried to keep the thought of Geralt and Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon together out and away from listening ears. The fact alone that he was affiliated with both of them was a dangerous line to walk on. 

But he was among friends here. Surely he could indulge himself for one night.

He decided to sing one of Yennefers songs, too, just to make the whole mess that was destinys triangle complete.   
“ _Her heart, as though a jewel, adorned her neck. Hard as if of diamond made, and as a diamond so unfeeling, sharper than obsidian, cutting-_ ”

———

Jaskier was just leaving a brothel, his sack of coin lighter than he liked but still heavier than feared. Mama Lantieri’s had always been a favorite etablissement of his. The women had taste and fire and the catamites were highly experienced and good natured, both teaching him some kinky new thing every time he visited. It was nice to let go and leave every wall of false personality down for a moment. The privacy of Mama Lantieri's always made that possible for him. 

Listening in on everything that has been going on in King Ervyll’s court, while playing complicated minuettes, keeping up the ‘foolish bard’ attitude and fake smiling through all of it had been fucking exhausting. He would write his report to Dijkstra in flowery prose again just to annoy him. And he intended to be off on one verse with the rhyme scheme too. That would irk Sigismund even more than the fact that Jaskier was a little shit again. 

He was still high from good sex, fine wine and the taste of berries and come on his lips.   
He only noticed his pursuers when it was already too late to run.

He was able to stun the first man with a hit on the head with his lute, kicked the second henchmen in the nuts and cracked another ones nose with his elbow. But it was all in vain for suddenly his whole body locked up in stupor, his movement frozen in an awkward half swing. 

The dark haired man in charge was obviously a sorcerer, although he was lacking the overworldly beauty he associated with magic users by now. His beady eyes, small lips and pointy nose screamed ‘rat’ at him.

“No need for the hostility and bravado, Master Jaskier. My name is Rience and I just wanted to have a little chat with you.”

——————

Torture, as Jaskier finds out, tends to be a highly disagreeable experience.

After a horrible whipping that took him back to his days of caning in temple school, Rience was actually so stupid to hold an evil monologue about his reasons for doing all this which implied he seemed to be very sure about the bard not surviving the experience.

Even though everyone always underestimated him, Jaskier had no delusions. It would need a small miracle to get out of his shackles under the watchful eyes of the sorcerer.

So he wanted to know everything about Princess Cirilla and her whereabouts? Fuck him. Jaskier knew all the rumors but apart from Geralts small slip of the tongue the bard knew absolutely nothing. And even if he did, he’d rather burn Filavendels lute in a fire build on poetry books than placing that child into danger.

“We will make you sing yet, little bird. The whipping was just a warm up.”

“Oh, that’s sad. I kind of enjoyed the kinky foreplay.” 

He had not. His back was killing him and his tears and screams had obviously belied his words.

“You may get another ten lashes if you behave. Where is the princess? Talk, you fool!”

“Seldom have I met such an insisting audience. First you want me to sing, now you want me to talk. Are you sure? Because once I start I am not easy to silence again. But since you asked so nicely I shan't deny you. We are in the warm up phase, as you said. And since you already were so attentive as to help me through my scales - if a bit unorthodox in choice of the means of assistance I give you that - I shall now proceed with my usual vocal training. You may participate if you feel like it. Let's start with some easy ones, shall we? Amidst the mists and coldest frosts, with stoutest wrists and loudest boasts, he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the gh—mphh.” Gosh, that bastard sure had a mean right hook. 

“Where is she? Your song implied she is protected by a witcher. Where can we find him?”

“A witcher wishes a wish for a witchers witch. The wisher is a witcher. Which Witcher is which?”

This stupid tongue twister earned him a box into his pelvis.

“You will find that I am very persistent.”

Ha. So was Jaskier.

“Velen vendors vent to eleven benevolent elven vendors who went to Velen.”

His tormentor hit him hard in the face. He could taste the coppery blood. 

They did their best in hurting him after that, but Jaskier was happy that they haven’t done anything really horrible. Two of his fingers were broken, but still attached. His neck was bruised and his voice hoarse, but given some time, his money maker would probably be the same again. He still had both ears. They could hack of a leg for all he cared as long as he still had the _important parts_ that made him the master bard Jaskier. Not that he was in favor of any kind of dismemberment, but he could deal with it if it really came to pass. 

He had sworn himself that he would survive this without spilling anything but nonsense, if only to spite them all. 

And then they had put him into the box. 

He thought it utterly ridiculous at first. What could a trunk really do to him? Are they trying to bore him to death now?

But after half an hour or so he just wished back out, rather enduring another whipping and some more nails being torn from his fingers.  
The cramping in his legs, arms and shoulders was horrible, but not the worst of it. The blackness was awful too. After some time he was not sure if his eyes were open or closed anymore. But what actually freaked him out were the acoustics. No reverb. A sonic dead room. 

No noises to hear but his own breathing and heartbeat. 

After a while he thought he could hear the sea, water rushing on the shore. But he realized with horrified interest that he could hear his blood flowing. 

Over aware of his breathing noises he started to hold his breath in so he would not to hear that horrible rasping he produced. But his body needed oxygen after all so when he tried to breath again he didn’t know how. When did breathing become so hard?  
And how is that possible? He was breathing his whole life. One of his singing instructors had even taught him how to do it right. Breathing through mouth and nose alike, from the diaphragm and engaging your core muscles. Taking deep breaths that fill your lungs and intercostals, releasing in a controlled hissing. So why was he struggling with this so much now? 

He remembered the Bardic Tournament in Vartburg, where he was held in those glorious arms of Geralts and told to breathe. Geralts rumbly voice in his ear, his smell of sweat, horse and onions penetrating is nose.   
Okay. He could do this.

It’s a bit of a shock when he remembered how to take a breath, like cold water closing in over his head, an icy winter lake crust in sight and finally finding the hole in the surface. 

  
In … out ….

In … out … . 

  
Okay, grand. This could work. He focused on how his lungs filled with air while not focusing too much, trying to let his mind wander. 

His first thought went to imagining an adventurer, finding a letter or a map to this location, hoping for riches and a magical sword, fighting his way through the bad men and maybe a Golem or Ifrit. He would be bloodied and exhausted, elated to finally open this treasure chest, expecting priceless artifacts, only to find a bard. He had to laugh at his own imagination. Especially when he couldn’t help the adventurer to be a white haired witcher, starring him down in confused stoicism.

When he comes back out of his little daydream it’s still there. The nothingness. 

Sweet Melitele, he really hoped he wouldn’t go insane in this thing. Jaskier always prided himself to be a very social creature. He knew very well that he required and lavished on constant sensations. But the only sensations he now took in were sparse, the slightly moldy smell of the chest, his fingers were able to feel out wood. Nothing else.   
No light. No noises. No sense of time.   
How long has he been in here, anyway? An hour? Half a day?

The cramps in his legs had stopped, his feet long gone to sleep. It would probably be hell to stand up. 

Was he ever going to stand up again?

He tried to press his head and shoulders against the hatch, putting all his weight into lifting the fucking thing open. He threw himself against the sides, pounding with fists wherever he could reach, making as much noise as he could. He was hoping that Rience or his lackeys would be annoyed enough with his ruckus to decide on a different tactic. Maybe he would even find a weak board in the wood so it would give and splinter. He screamed and kicked in a frenzy.  
To no avail.

It had only made his body fatigued and weak. His wounds hurt like hell. He could smell fresh blood. And his breathing was off again.  
The utter darkness grates on him. The uncertainty of his release started to chip away at his will.

Shivering tendrils of unease started to creep up on him, making him hyperaware of his heart pounding away. The thought on breathing and denying said breathing spilled back into his consciousness like misbehaving ink. 

He tried his best to ignore it, wriggling himself in a position of minimal comfort between unyielding wooden walls. The moldy stale air was getting warmer by the minute. He tried to press as much of his heated skin into the cold trunk sides as he could, uncarring of splinters or rusty nails. 

He closed his eyes, although it made no difference in the dark, and thought about sleep before dismissing the notion as futile. His aches, cramps and pains were too prominent for now to ignore. 

Jaskier started humming, mumbling lyrics here and there and tried to draw himself back into his own mind. Everything to stop that big horrible nothing surrounding him. 

His songs and the occasional thought of Geralt and Princess Cirilla safe and sound in Kaer Morhen were his tether to sanity.

————

Jaskier had been drifting in and out, his music and imagination the only friends in his isolation. Somewhere along the way his imagination had turned on him too, the little backstabber, and presented him with nightmares and halucinating up rescue followed up by more torture. His mother had been there, once, opening the trunk and telling him he wasn't allowed out until he saw reason.

On his third day of captivity - but it could as well have been weeks or years - there is the noise of a rusty old panel being shoved open, low light spilling across protesting eyes. 

Yennefer von Vengerberg was looking down on him, wearing her usual murderous expression. 

Holy shit. Not again. Just your mind playing tricks, bard. Seven in… seven out… 

He just had dealt with his last hallucination of the horse with the six arms and way too many eyes to count. Another fabulated mirage of Geralt telling him to fuck of or Yennefer threatening violence surely would be an easy one in comparison. 

Maybe she would go away if he sung that song again he composed for her in pacification? He wet his chapped lips and gave it all the emotions he had left, for his voice sure was below par by now. 

>   
>  _You flee my dream come the morning_   
>  _Your scent – berries tart, lilac sweet_   
>  _To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy_   
>  _Of violet eyes, glistening as you weep_
> 
> _The wolf I will follow into the storm_   
>  _To find your heart, its passion displaced_   
>  _By ire ever growing, hardening into stone_   
>  _Amidst the cold to hold you in a heated embrace_
> 
> _I know not if fate would have us live as one_   
>  _Or if by love's blind chance we've been bound_   
>  _The wish I whispered when it all began_   
>  _Did it forge a love you might never have found?_

“You flee my dream come the mornin’... berries tart, lilac sweet… mhhmhhmhhm-twisted stormy, violet eyes, mhmhmh weep.…”   
Jaskier trailed off when he noticed some odd things. Yennefers expressoin for once was one of badly hidden concern and horror, which was a very knew experience. What threw him of the most was her attire. Instead of being naked to the navel or wearing one of her luscious dresses of lace and fur, she wore a very nice getup of leather trousers and an armor like corset over a frilly black blouse.

“What’s wrong? You usually have a knife to my penis by now. You are a very strange hallucination.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

“Oh?”

_____

  
Jaskiers body had no idea what was up or down for a second. When his feet found stable ground again the vertigo made his head spin and his core turn upside down. 

Portals were fucking wild. 

He shakily made himself comfortable on a wide open stone floor, retching out the last contents of his stomach. He felt a cool drift on his skin that made him shiver from cold and delight alike. If he hadn’t been sure about Yennefer being real or not, he now realized with all his conscious and unconscious mind, that he was really out. Away from this horrible experience. Out of that box.

He couldn’t help the tears of relief falling from his eyes.

Jaskier was sitting on the cool floor on all fours, retching and crying, mumbling ‘thank you’s and nonsensical words to the old stone of Kaer Morhen. Of course Geralt chose that moment to stumble out of a portal himself, Triss Merrigold hot on his heals. 

Geralt was with him in an instant, a thousand questions on his face. He slowly helped the bard up, his golden eyes wide open, filled with wonder, horror, hurt, anger, alarm, but most of all concern and confusion.  
“What-?”  
“Dijkstra wanted me to have an eye out for the bard. But since he didn’t really know anything I-” Yennefer looked away from Geralts stare in guilt. “When he didn’t report back, I started on a searching spell immediately. I have no idea what a mage like Rience-”

“Rience!”

That name seemed to wake Jaskier out of his stupor, his whole body shaking with horror. His voice was getting louder with every word, working himself into hysterics. 

“Yennefer! Vilgefortz is in league with Nilfgaard! He is promised the North once Emhyr is taking over. Yen, you have to get to Rector Deckermann, he will know how to contact-”  
”Bard, you need to calm down!”, interjected Triss.  
“But he was the one who engineered the truce between the North and Nilfgaard! If the truce is a farce, thousands of people will die and-”  
” _Egvane Navr_!”  
Jaskier fell asleep instantly, like a puppet cut from it’s strings.  
Geralt was quick to catch him, careful not to touch his back, which looked inflamed all over. His whole torso was a mass of blue, yellow and red, some wounds still bleeding.

He had never seen Jaskier so broken.   
Jaskier was supposed to be this bundle of energy, always moving, talking, flapping his expressive hands around and making noise. Him lying in his arms like that, still and unmoving, was unsettling. 

Yennefers expression was one of deep consideration and you could clearly see the storm raging in her mind.  
“If the bard is right, then we have a lot of shit on our hands. Ciri is safe in Ellander for now, but I am not so sure about this idea to send her off to Aretuza anymore… I need to talk to some people.”  
She lifted one hand and called forth one of her portals, already on the move again.  
“Yen?”  
Yennefer turned around.   
“Thank you.” Geralts voice was naught but a whisper. 

The witch shook her head, regret in her violet eyes when they settled on the still form of her bickering partner.   
“Rience deserves far worse than just a firespell to the face. If it hadn’t been for my childish jealousy, I would have been there for him sooner, Geralt. He didn’t derve this…” She trailed of, suddenly remembering an odd memory.

“Cirilla had a dream about him, once, saying his fate inundating ours would wash the future clean. I have no idea what she meant with that, but… Did you know that he checked in with Ciri every Belleteyn and Midinváerne? That he sang her into good humor again after Pavetta and Duny died at sea? He took care of her and you over all those years. It’s our turn, now.”

Geralt nodded his understanding and Yennefer passed through her portal. 

“Let’s get him into bed so I can tend to his wounds”, murmured Triss.

Geralt carefully lifted him into his arms in a bridal carry and led the way to his room.

———————————

It’s a week into Jaskiers recovery when Triss finally announced that the only thing left to do is rest and regularly treating the wounds with a healing salve. She fled the keep through a portal in grateful retreat, happy to leave Geralt to his insufferable mother henning over the minstrel.

Jaskier was still in a dark space on occasion, more times than not waking from nightmares. He preferred freezing in bed instead of closing the big balcony door through which he could see the panorama of Kaedwen. He sometimes needed to know the outside world still existed. But he was slowly working himself back to his witty persona. He put on a brave face most of the time when he wasn’t stuck in his own head. Being bedbound for now with only some books and Geralt to distract him wasn't helping either.

Geralt was tending to his back one day, his touch so soothing and familiar, when something in Jaskier broke. He cried into the bedding, spilling out his thoughts and everything that happened. He only hoped that Geralt wouldn’t think him a lesser man for it.

“I was so fucking stupid. I knew that someone would come after me because of my connections to the Cintran court and the longstanding friendsh- companionship with you. Dijkstra warned me time and time again. But I never thought that the order would come from fucking Vilgefortz. What does the Chapter of Sorcerers even want from Cirilla?”

So under big wet tears, some hiccups and scornful rants he told Geralt about everything that had been happening after they parted on that mountaintop. How devastated he had been for a while. How he put himself back up. Teaching, composing and singing in court, making his way through all kinds of social circles. How flattered and happy he was when he was asked to join the Redanian Secret Service, because he somehow felt that his life had purpose again. The balance act of trying to be nondescript by being the most obtrusive man in the room. About how he involved himself more and more in political schemes while trying to stay out of it all. And about the insight he had gained, every side as dark as the other. The hole political landscape a pitfall of bad decisions concealed behind pretty words and ambiguously good intentions. 

“I don’t even know which side I’m supposed to be on anymore. Emhyr var Emreis may be a ruthless and power hungry warlord but at least he cares for non-humans. Foltest, while a brilliant strategist, is a hotheaded pervert and Dijkstra means well but is a morally questionable puppet master. I am so tired of this fucking war. I just want it to end.” 

They both were silent for a while after that. 

“Thank you”, rumbled Geralt.

“Mh?”

“For protecting us. For being strong like that. Especially after all the hurtful things I said. You are a very loyal friend and I never told you how much I appreciated that.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that, you stupid oaf. I love you. You must know that by now.”

Geralt seemed to struggle with his words and feelings for a moment. “I do. It’s just hard for me to … reciprocate?”

“The only thing I ever wanted was to have you in my life, Geralt. No matter the extent. I just hoped that after all these years it would be more intimate. Either physically or mentally. But you just kept on building walls around you. “

“I know. And I will try to open up. I just… I can’t write songs back for you, Jaskier.”

“I don’t need you to. I know you don’t do the whole emotional talk thing. It’s challenging for you and I accept that. I know how to interpret your whole range of hums and grunts by now. I know your expressions, all the little differences of meaning depending on how high your eyebrows are raised or the corners of your mouth are angled. And that is enough most of the time, I guess. But sometimes your sarcastic wit really hurts, even though I know you don’t mean it.”

Jaskier carefully lifted the hand - the one who hadn’t two fingers in a splint - as if one would when nearing a startled animal. He slowly tucked one white strand of hair behind Geralts ear and caressed the impressive jawline. Geralt leaned into the gentle touch. 

“I promise to work on my words.”  
“Good.”  
Jaskiers fingers were ghosting over his face now, his temple, his cheekbones, under his eyes, tracing his cupidbow, his lips.   
“I just need to know one thing for now, Geralt. And I need you to answer truthfully with three words or more.”  
Geralt was in a trance like state from the touching that felt very intimate and new. But the gravitas of Jaskiers voice made it clear that it would be very important to not butch his answer up. The witcher steeled himself, earnest honey eyes locking onto insecure blue orbs.

“How is my singing?”

Geralt smiled freely. He could do that one.

“Like ordering wine and receiving a fine Erveluce.” He took the hand still resting on his cheek into his own, directing it to his lips once more. 

“Like a hot bath and a good foot rub when a hunt is done.” A kiss on the hand. 

“Like a warm Belleteyn fire after a cold dark winter.” A kiss on the knuckles.

“Like opening a book and being surprised by every new chapter.” A kiss on the thumb.  
He breathed in deeply when he put his nose on the wrist, closing his eyes when the divine fragrance hit him.

“Like oranges, rosemary and thyme.” An openmouthed kiss on the pulse point.

“Like coming home,” he rumbled. 

He didn’t dare to elaborate after this little confession, still nuzzling into the spot that gave off the heady bouquet of Jaskier. 

There is surprise in Jaskiers face, understanding, relief and disbelief, joy and something very soft and warm.

“Please come closer so I may kiss you, dear Witcher.”

Geralt complied. 

It was not fireworks, no enlightenment or blissful salvation. No intoxicating lust-filled hunger. The kiss was cautious, chaste and mindful. It was grounding in the familiarity of their affections as well as thrumming in the novelty of this new intimacy. It was comfort and coming home, a meeting of old souls finding tender warmth in a familiar lover. It felt conversant and new at the same time, the touch of their lips carving deep into their bones, sealing an unbreakable relationship that wasn’t predetermined by a djinns wish or the law of surprise. The assurance of a love enduring, come what may. 

When they finally break apart, their eyes are dilated, both raveling in the daze of contentment.   
“Jaskier,” Geralt growled against his mouth. “I want—”  
“Anything,” he interrupted, breathless and almost sobbing with happiness. Jaskier had worried, that while Geralt may have felt the same deep connection, he never would be interested in him in a sexual way. The Witcher never had shown any interest in the touch of a male lover, never openly wondered about exploring this side of the pleasurable spectrum. He realized now that his worries were not unfounded, but redundant, for Geralt was not shy in taking what his instincts were eagerly claiming.

They learned about each other. Geralt learned about the mole on his left thigh and the texture of his chest hair. Jaskier learned about his ticklish sides and the taste of his earlobes. About sensitive spots and dead skin tissue. They learned and relearned about their scars, old and new, concluding that they needed the rest of their lives to learn about all of it. They are reverent in their touching and exploring, wonderment in the reactions they elicit in each other. What made Jaskiers body arche in pleasure and Geralt shudder with unbearable rawness. They discover together what makes them shiver, where to press teasing pecks or lick and bite to make the other moan deliciously. Geralts senses are overwhelmed with the tenderness, nerves scraped raw from gasped praises and keened pleas, Jaskiers worshiping kisses and clever hands.

They revel in the aftermath, Geralt scenting and tasting the bards neck area, almost purring with contentment. He listened to the human heartbeat slowly settling, while Jaskiers exhaustion of the days events slowly pulled him into a deep sleep. 

  
—————

  
When Geralt awakes again - a deep restful slumber this time instead of his usual meditation - there is his usual instinct to start the day and jump into action. Feeding Roach and mucking out her stables, checking the traps around the keep and the bastion for game and laying out new ones. Repairing a wall or a roof. Oiling leather or sharpening steel. But he doesn’t move. 

He has no intention of freeing himself from the limbs that hold him captive and the head resting on his shoulder. He just watches Jaskier and the way the light played with his hair and skin. At some point he started carding his fingers through his soft bedhead and lightly trailing his fingers over the long scars, that would now forever be a part of him. He remembered the bitter voice and rueful smile from Jaskier a few days prior, were he offhandedly commented that they matched, now. He had smeared some of the healing salve on himself and then on an older scar on Geralts forearm, trying for cheeky and carefree, but just looking ridiculously endearing. 

The bard was waking, but instead of relishing in the moment like Geralt had, he jerked back in alarm, distancing himself at least one arm length, instinctively using his forearm to cover his face, hands rolled into fists. 

“I am so sorry. I just- It’s-” Jaskier whispered when comprehension filtered back into his waking mind, his heart beating a mile a minute.   
He slowly uncurled his fingers, reaching for Geralt tentatively. 

“Hm.” The Witcher held out his arms invitingly and pressed a kiss into Jaskiers palm, totally unfazed. On the inside he's hurting and his gut roiling, willing to run steel and silver into Rience and Vilgefortz and every other monster who dared to lay a finger on the bard.

Jaskier sighed deeply and closed his eyes, when he rested his head back on Geralts shoulder, basking in the feeling of security. 

They stayed like that for the rest of the morning, breathing each other in and engaging in their usual banter from time to time.   
Something seemed to be on Jaskiers mind, though. He snuggled even closer into the impressive muscles and took a deep breath to absorb the Witchers courage. 

“Geralt?”  
“Mh.”  
“Whatever this is but... I am probably not able to be … monogamous with you. You know that, right?”  
Geralt let out a deep rumble, which Jaskier - after a moment of wonder - identified as a laugh.  
“You spent over twenty years of your life with me. We are probably each others longest relationships. I think that counts for something.”  
Jaskier breathed out shakily, relieved that Geralt knew him good enough to accept his antics and stupid idiosyncrasy about falling in love on a daily basis. 

He felt Geralt tensing under him.   
“Yennefer?”  
Now it was Jaskier who chuckled. He caressed Geralts beard, cerulean eyes focused only on him. 

“I think we are long over that stage where she and I fight for your attention. I know you have a deep affection for her and it would be hypocritical of me to deny you whatever it is that anchors her to you. Whatever this new thing is between us and no matter what fate will throw at us - I am not willing to let you slip through my fingers ever again. We will adjust.”

"Mh." The White Wolf seemed reassured by that. 

"Geralt?"

"Mh?"

"How's my singing?"

Jaskiers eyes sparkled with mischief, his hands slowly wandering down Geralts ridiculouly hard abdominal muscles and under the blanket. 

Geralt pounced. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gave me pain.   
> Since the Netflix version is not adaptable to ‘Something more’ from Sword of Destiny [where Geralt is on his way to Cintra, by chance meeting up with Dandelion - both riding on Roach - when they stumble upon Ciri at Yurgas place in 1264] Jaskier technically doesn’t even know about them finding each other. Also as I mentioned before: the timelines just don’t add up, with the Netflix Dragon Hunt Debacle in 1262, finding Ciri in 1263?   
> So that’s some bullshit to work around. Writing stuff with two canons is a nightmare I am not willing to deal with. I just tackled right into BoE, changing major events by Jaskier preventing the Thanedd coup, which… technically makes this canon divergent now?  
> The next problem was that I had so many ideas but couldn’t fit it all into one.   
> For instance: In the start I had about 4k words about Geralt searching for Jaskier in all the inns and taverns he came along, but every time there was a musician singing in one, they sang an embarrassing or hurtful song, sending a message from Jaskier and discouraging him to keep on looking. I had the songs picked out and everything. Priscilla and Valdo effing Marx were in on it, too. It was fabulous. But it just didn’t fit with the vibe and made this whole chapter into a wordcount monster. Maybe I will do a oneshot with that on some rainy day.
> 
> 'Her heart, as though a jewel, adorned her neck. Hard as if of diamond made, and as a diamond so unfeeling, sharper than obsidian, cutting-' - Yennefer citating Dandelions performance at Bleobheris, Blood of Elves, Andrzej Sapkowski.
> 
> ~~  
> - > Smut  
> -> Songfic  
> -> Dialog  
> -> Mystery/Adventure  
> -> Whump/ Hurt&Comfort~~  
> Bingo.   
> Ha, now look at that, me breaking my comfort zone… It’s a miracle. 
> 
> Next time: The Witchers of Kaer Morhen


	6. The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite my long friendship with Geralt, I know little more about this peculiar brotherhood or guild than learned tomes provide. On top of that, I am obliged to discretion, so I shall write nothing more than necessary on the subject.   
> \- Dandelion, The Witcher 2 - Assassins of Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was like 93 percent done with this and then my muse claimed the law of surprise, threw a new idea my way and I got sidetracked. But here you have it. I tried my hand at angst and crack this time. Not sure if I did that right. I did my best, anyway.
> 
> Jaskier performs:  
> \- Empty chairs at empty tables from Les Mis. The Eddie Redmayne version is by far the most heartbreaking. The singing imho is weak tho. I imagine Jaskiers range would probably be more like Ramin Karimloo. If you want the goose bump version, then Jonathan Antoine is your man.  
> \- Lullaby of woe from the Witcher 3: Wild Hunt - Blood and Wine Soundtrack. Check out Peter Hollens + Malukah for the duett version. Ashley Serena for the maximum shiver effect. This whole scene is an indulgence of mine. This probably has been done before, but I just couldn’t resist.   
> \- The Dragonborn Comes from Skyrim, edited to my liking. Since we had Hobbits in the last for the readers I thought including a gaming reference was only just. There are several possibilities here: Malukah of course, Erutan for the more medieval flair, Peter Hollens or The Click for the male voice, Grissini Project for the pretty video. I actually tried learning Dovahzul for this little scene. But when I got into present perfect and simple past tenses I realized that I would rather take an arrow in the knee.  
> \- The quote at the end is Dandelions very humble journal entry about himself in W3:WH.  
> \- The Greatest Showman - This is me. In the style of Peter Hollens. I also like the softer accoustic version by Matt Johnson although it’s missing the BAMF vibe I had in mind here. A worthy hymn to end this, either way.

Geralt entered the tower chamber, ready to have some words with Jaskier. But the wind was taken out of his sails when he took in the view. Jaskier was lying on the bed, clad only in knee long braies, his porcelain skin in stark contrast to the dark brown bear pelt he had sunk his fingers in. The setting sun was streaming through the open balcony doors and threw his figure into orange and rose colored light. The last sun rays played with his light brown hair and accentuated fine back muscles on broad shoulders, softening into a slim waist and narrow hips. It was a thing of beauty.

The white Wolf enjoyed the view for a while and then remembered why he had come. 

“You can’t hide in here forever, you know.”  
“I can try.”  
“Come down for dinners at least.”  
“I don’t wanna.”  
“Why?”  
“Eskel is a really cute guy and very nice to me but he looks at me with pity which is just… no. Lambert might be a lovable asshole, but I don’t have the strength to deal with his sharp tongue at the moment. And Vesemir obviously finds me lacking. Every time he sees me I get the impression that I’m a waste of space. And that look of mistrust. Like I am about to steal every secret there is in the Kaer and run away with it to the highest bidder.”  
“That won’t change until you make the first move. Just do your thing.”  
“My thing, huh?”  
“The talking and singing.”  
Jaskier threw Geralt a look over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised in question.   
“Did that work for you?”  
“… Eventually.”  
“Geralt, it took me a quarter of a century for you to actually enjoy my presence. I don’t have the energy right now to do that whole dance again. And with your family, no less! I want them to like me. But…”  
Jaskier sighed deeply, sitting up so he could look Geralt in the eyes.   
“I don’t feel up on my game. I am too tired to put on my charming face. And I miss my lute. I could always count on my songs doing the talking when I couldn’t find the right words myself. I feel… bereft. And I don’t know what to do.”  
“As I said. Do your thing. Do what you always do when we are on the Path together. You will grow on them.”  
Jaskier repeated ‘ _what you always do_ ’ under his breath sarcastically, but then got the look he always had when he was deeply in thought. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips and then stayed stuck there between them.  
Dinner could wait, Geralt decided. He shrugged out of his clothing and joined the bard on the bear skin, tackling him down and claiming that cheeky tongue. 

———————

A few days later Eskel came from the stables five minutes after he went there and joined Lambert and Geralt at the task of changing some ramshackle wooden beams in the inner courtyard.   
“What’s up with you? Didn’t Vesemir condemn you to stable duty this week?”  
“No need. The dung has already been cleared out, the horses cared for, the chickens looked fed and happy and there is some kind of … nest for Lil’ Bleater made out of fresh hay, straw and an old blanket. You could have told me you already took care of that, Geralt.”  
Geralt looked up from his work in surprise.  
“Why’d you think it was me?”  
“Because Roach looks like the queen of horses. Shiny skin, mane combed through to look like silk. And that braid was a give-away, too. She wouldn’t allow anyone but you to touch her like that.”  
“Mhhh.”  
Eskel and Lambert looked suspicious at that, but dropped the matter when their construction nearly crashed in on itself.

——————-

Vesemir came into the eastern court yard used for training, where Geralt and Lambert circled each other with swords. Eskel was working on the Pendulum blindfolded, going through the motions easily.  
“Lambert, you are in time out. Change with Eskel.”  
“What? But why?”  
“There is a giant pile of freshly hacked firewood that will probably last us through three winters. And when I say hacked, I mean smashed to small pieces. Someone has been angry. You know the rules about sparring while angry.”  
“That wasn’t me!” exclaimed Lambert in indignant surprise.   
Vesemir crossed his arms in front of his body imposingly, his wise old eyes flitting from one boy to another to figure out the culprit.   
In the highest room of a tower, Jaskier groaned into a pillow. He wouldn’t lift his arms again for the next weeks. It had been good to blow of some steam though, imagining the logs to be the heads of Emhyr, Dijkstra and Rience.

————————————-

They figured it all out the other day when Lambert sat down at the already set table, soup steaming from bowls made out of freshly baked dark rye bread. It had been Geralts turn to cook and they all were a bit impressed with the menu tu jours.  
Lambert took Eskel by the back of his head and pressed him into the lapels of his shirt.  
“Smell,” he ordered.  
“I know. My clothing smells a bit like lavender, too. They were just laying there outside of my room door, a pile of neatly folded laundry smelling like spring. No undies, though. Wonder if those are still in the washing kitchen.”  
"Not only washed." Vesemir pushed out one of his sleeves for everyones inspection. The hole has been mended where Eskels sword had cut through the cloth a few days ago in training. The sewing was neat, the stitches tiny and even.  
Geralt was the last to join them at the table, his hair freshly washed and looking serene like he always did when he had a long soak in a hot bath. He lifted the bread lid from his bowl with curious inquiry, as if he didn’t know what he himself had cooked. The onion soup smelled rich of garlic and marjoram. Geralt hummed in appreciation.   
He very obviously hadn’t been anywhere near the kitchens in the last hours.  
“Is there a fairy or imp who owes us a favor? Who is doing all this? Not that I am complaining but-”  
“Well I AM complaining! I smell like a fucking garden!”  
“It’s Jaskier,” Geralt explained, slowly spooning his Zurek.  
“Ja -who now?”  
“The bard,” translated Eskel.   
“Oh, … right. Sometimes I forget that we have a guest in the Keep. He still alive?”  
“Alive and doing laundry, obviously,” murmured Vesemir, not sure how to interpret this strange behavior. He wasn’t used to young men doing household chores on their own free will and unasked. They were either assigned or threatened with. This boy did them with diligence and without being prompted. It was a conundrum.

———————————-

It was two days later when Eskel, Geralt and Lambert entered the hall, frozen and hungry after a day of repairing a big hole in one of the walls. They quickly followed their noses and found Vesimir at the set dinner desk spooning some kind of stew into his mouth. The divine smell was coming from the big cauldron of Bigos hung over the fireplace. Without further delay they served themselves and shoveled the food into their mouths, groaning in delight when the taste hit their tongues.  
“This is really good,” murmured Eskel, who had slowed down to enjoy the rich flavor of garlic and onions, dried plums, junipers and caraway seeds between juicy meat, bacon and cabbage.   
“Over two centuries old and Vesemir finally managed to figure out how spices worked,” remarked Lambert, quickly spooning the Bigos into his mouth like a starved man.   
Geralt knew what was going on before Vesemir even opened his mouth.   
“I didn’t cook. It was already simmering there when I came down from the green houses half an hour ago.”  
Geralt had lifted a white cotton cloth draped over a big plate in curiosity, revealing Szarlotka. The crumbs on the apple pie looked a little bit burned, but eatable none the less. It smelled like buttery heaven.   
“Praised be Mama Zuzanna.”  
Geralt started to explain when he was met with uncomprehending stares.   
“She is an old matron at a court Jaskier used to live from time to time. He was bullied into cooking lessons by her, I think.” The Witcher slowly chewed while he tried to remember some of the ramblings he had only listened to with half an ear at the time when they were hunting for that nonexistent doppler.  
“There was a bet involved somehow. And probably a woman - most of his skills involve a woman. And something about loving through the stomach instead of seducing with the body?” Geralt shrugged. “I distinctly remember something about a mental breakdown over cake, though.”   
He eyed the Szarlotka critically.   
“Mh.”  
Lambert slurped down the last remains in his bowl and went for seconds.  
“So he cares for the animals, does laundry and cooks. A real demure housewive, that one. Does he sweep the floors next? You sure he got a cock and a pair of balls?”  
Geralt rammed an elbow in Lamberts sternum.  
“The actual question we have to ask here,” interrupted Eskel before a brawl started, “is why he’s doing all this.”  
Geralt was pretty sure that he had figured that out around year two of traveling with the bard.   
“Because he wants to pull his weight. He mentioned feeling useless sometimes, standing in the bushes while I did the monster slaying. So he started to do stuff he could actually help with. Making sure Roach and I were comfortable. Collecting firewood. Cooking when we had the means, because he claimed raw meat looted from a wolf with rabies could not be considered eatable.” Geralt smiled a bit when he remembered that very memorable discussion and the utter look of disbelieve and horror on Jaskiers face. He thought of all the other things, small and big, the bard did for him on a semi regular basis. Like tending to his hair, rubbing his feet or chamomile oil on his- well, they didn’t have to know everything.   
“Deciphering and sorting through the odd books and letters we found on the Path. He knows a lot of languages besides common speak so he usually decides what to toss and which one to keep or sell. He’s doing my laundry sometimes, complaining they stink like horse and onions. Mending my armor when he is able to. Tending to my wounds. Brewing potions.”  
“He what?” Vesemir snapped. His expression was an interesting mix of mistrust, disbelieve and shock.  
“He knows how to brew the easier healing potions. He insisted on it. Nagged me for weeks, after I was slowly bleeding to death when a Chort nearly got the better of me and I had no Swallow left.”  
“Have you learned nothing from me, boy? A witcher always goes into the fight prepared!”  
Geralt shrinked a bit at the reprimand, murmuring excuses.  
“And why did you teach him that? There is a _reason_ why we keep those recipes a secret. These potions are dangerous and some of the ingredients highly volatile or poisonous. Does that bard have a death wish?”  
Geralt sighed.   
“I wonder about that regularly. He’s got no self preservation to speak of. And don’t worry, he won’t say anything to anyone. He hated chopping up drowner brains enough to only use that knowledge in life or death situations, anyway. Point is we need to keep him occupied or he will start brewing ten batches of Oriole for each of us and dying from the fumes without us noticing. He’s a bundle of energy even on normal days. And now he’s cooped up in a snowed in fortress without his lute and nothing to do but chores. If we don’t find him some stimulating task soon he will think of something ridiculous himself and drive us up the walls in a week.”  
“He should train with us. Power him out,” mumbled Lambert around his third piece of cake.   
“He won’t agree to that. He doesn’t like fighting and he likes weapons even less. He wears his lute and nothing else.”  
Lambert made big round eyes.

“Not even a dagger? A bomb? A knife in his boot? A garotte, even? How did he survive until now?”  
Geralt shrugged while Eskel looked thoughtful.   
“He’s probably missing his music. Maybe if he got his hands on an instrument? I’m pretty sure I saw an old harp in a trunk somewhere on the third floor.”  
Geralt shook his head. “He detests the harp because he hates Valdo Marx.”  
“Who wouldn’t. Valdo fucking Marx,” spit Lambert.   
Geralt looked at him questioningly.  
“Didn’t you hear that song of him that goes around Cidaris? Pure Witcher hate put into bad rhymes and sung in even worse melodies. I’m glad it’s too pretentious to be catchy.”  
“Mh.”   
As if he didn’t have enough reasons by now to put his fists to that ugly goatee.  
They settled into thoughtful silence for a while, munching on cake and sipping out of their tankards.  
Vesemir sighed deeply after he swallowed the last bite of apple pie.   
“You trust him?”  
Geralt nodded. “With my life.”  
“The library is a mess. Give me a day to get the more dangerous texts out of there. That should take him a while.”

—————————————

It did.

But it had a side effect that Geralt hadn’t considered. Jaskier always had his head in a book in the evenings now. He usually lounged on the bed in comfortable long braies, one hand stroking the bear pelt underneath him like it was a cat, the other holding a dusty tome or ancient diary, sometimes mumbling along in Skellige jargon, Elder or Dwarvish. When he got totally enraptured in a scroll filled with Ofiri runes and forgot to eat for a day, Geralt drew the line. 

“Get dressed. You eat dinner with us tonight.”

“I will make a fool out of myself,” whined the bard.

“No you won’t. Not more than usual, anyway.”

So he dressed reluctantly. Since he didn’t have any clothes himself, he made due with what he had pilfered together over the last weeks. Geralt had given him a pair of black leather pants, which fitted him good enough. Since Jaskier had refused to wear all black - the thought of being already dressed for his own funeral left him uneasy - he had claimed two of Geralts shirts his own, who weren’t midnight-colored: a white one Geralt didn’t even know he still possessed and a soft cotton shirt washed so often that it could be considered gray by now. Jaskier preferred the bright red shirt, though, which he had found between some rags. It was a cast-off of either Lambert or Eskel and totally wearable if one ignored the scorch marks on the left sleeve. From the rag pile he had also gotten himself an old long-sleeved greenish tunic from Vesemir, which had been slashed with claw marks along the whole right side. He remedied that quickly with picking holes on both sides of the snags and weaving black leather bands through them in a complicated pattern. Against all efforts he was still no tailor though, so all the shirts were a bit too big on him, showing off his chest hair indecently and making him shiver around the neck. So he dived back into the pile of discarded clothes and repurposed some linens and small pelts to serve as neckerchiefs and scarfs. 

Geralt had no idea how Jaskier was able to make those rags look like latest haute couture from Toussaint. 

When Jaskier sat down with a sotto ‘evening’ and was served a big bowl of Barszcz by Geralt with a grumpy “Eat.”, the mutants didn’t comment on it. He tried to ignore the curious glances thrown his way from time to time and let the conversations wash over him. His curiosity got the better of him when Geralt reacted to ‘wolf’ and Eskel was repeatedly addressed with another pet name as well. 

“Why do they call you dragon?” he asked, while Lambert and Geralt playfully wrestled for the last breadroll, not noticing when Vesemir took the roll and spread it thick with butter. 

“Because he’s hung like one!” exclaimed Lambert but was kicked in the gut for it. 

If Eskel still had the ability to blush, he probably would have, thought Jaskier, for the guy looked embarrassed for a second too long by that remark.

Eskel turned a bit to the side and away from the others, moving his fingers in a pattern Jaskier recognized as Igni by now. The bard expected the usual trick of a candle being lit or a fireball being thrown. But instead there was a controlled beam of flames. Eskels hand was so close to his face that the bard was convinced the Witcher was breathing fire. Old white scar tissue got cast into shadows, a trick of the light transforming them into a scale like pattern. 

“Holy shit! That was sexy. Why was that sexy? The yellow eyes reflecting the flames, maybe? They looked like melting honey.” babbled Jaskier in a daze, his face one of impressed reverence. 

When he realized that he had said that aloud, he pressed a hand over his eyes, then turned to Geralt with a stage whisper.

"Geralt, I may or may not have flirted with your brother and made a fool out of myself. Like expected. May I be excused now?”

The answer was a resolute “No.” and the raised left brow of unimpressed connivance.

“Why didn’t you warn me, though? I thought you were the _only_ handsome witcher with the neat tricks. But now I realize that four times out of five you just light candles, start camp fires or warm up bath water and he is the one with the fucking _dragon breath_. I bet he has an impressive Aard, too. You mostly just open doors and smash through wonky brick walls.”

Geralt felt called out, while a mischievous smirk blossomed on the minstrels face.

“Oh my, this is enlightening.”

He had just realized that he was at the source. Those people could probably trade embarrassing stories about Geralt with him. 

This winter was going to be grand. 

He turned his full attention on Lambert. “What are you better at?”

Lambert wriggled his eyebrows. “Acrobatics.”

“How is it that you are not afraid of us?”, Eskel wanted to know. “Everyone else is.”

“Ah, yes I heard the stories, too, as a kid. About the horns and the bone marrow eating and stuff. I also know how stories work. I make them, after all. The first thing I learned when I started out as a bard was never to believe in a story. Literary license tends to make a regular woman into a princess without fault and a desperate man into a heartless beast without morals. I like to make up my own mind about things. Geralt says that’s stupid and the reason I nearly get eaten and beaten on a regular basis.”   
“You get eaten and beaten because you have no common sense.”

Their banter was abruptly interrupted by a strange smell and crackling in the air. All of the Witchers were on alert in an instant, a weapon in hand. 

A portal materialized in the middle of the hall, a human shape crossing through. 

Jaskier was the first to move, nearly stumbling over his feet to get to the small figure. 

“Hey, cub,” he whispered reverently, dropped to his knees and opened his arms wide. 

Cirilla threw herself at the bard and hugged him with all her strength. They stayed like that for a while, smiling and and crying silent tears in remembrance of happy memories made in a court that lay in ashes.

“Sweet Melitele, look at you. You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman. I feel inadequate. If I’d known you would come I would have donned a hat.” 

Cirilla giggled while wiping away the tear stains, probably thinking about some of his bolder style choices he had made at some of her birthdays.

“Oh, that reminds me…”, she fiddled around with the wide strap securing a big unshapely box on her back. “Yennefer wanted me to give you this on the condition of writing a song about her thats not substandard and won’t compare her hair to a raven for once.”

When Jaskier opened the wooden case his heart jumped into his throat and the silent tears renewed their efforts, this time caused by pure happiness and relieving himself of a tension that he didn’t knew had been there. It felt a bit unreal to touch his elven lute after so long. Caressing over her wood and feeling out the tightness of the strings, he promised himself that he would compose a song of epic proportions for the Witch that not only had saved his life but was also sparring him from a long winter of yearning and depressing thoughts.

While he tended to her, fingers already fiddling with the nobs to pitch the strings, Cirilla threw herself into the next set of arms, not picky about the person the arms belonged to. She was lifted in the air by Vesemir, got a loving embrace from Geralt, a half hug from Eskel and an impromptu piggy back ride from Lambert.   
Then she looked around inquiringly.   
“Where is Coen?”  
“He couldn’t make it this winter. Maybe you’ll see him next year again.” 

Cirillas eyes looked old and resigned for a second.

“No, I won’t.” 

Sadly enough, she was right. 

————————-

Life in the Kaer changed a lot after Cirillas arrival. Mischief and mayhem multiplied, mostly for Cirillas amusement, but also because Jaskiers mood slowly took a turn to the happy and unpredictable character again he was in his younger years as a bard. Jaskier was still very adamant about avoiding Vesemirs looks of mistrust, Lamberts sharp words and Eskel walking on eggshells around him. But when Ciri was not occupied with other things she dragged the bard around the keep and it’s surroundings like a hostess trying to impress a guest with all the wonders her realm had to offer. Jaskier let her. It wasn’t even midwinter yet and he was going to live in the Keep for at least eight more weeks. It was time to stop hiding and work through some of his issues, anyway. 

The easiest to bond with was the sharp tongued and abrasive Lambert, surprisingly. When Lambert had heard about the bard being unarmed, he had started nagging him to join training. It just wouldn’t fit into his conception of the world that anyone would walk around without even a knife or dagger hidden somewhere. Jaskier had grudgingly agreed but silently vowed to boycott the project.   
At sword lessons, the minstrel evaded Lamberts attacks with dance moves. He could barely hold up the heavy steel sword for lengths at a time as it was.   
Lambert had laughed at him the whole time when he had a go at the throwing knives. He got his revenge at the hand to hand lessons. Jaskier had kicked the inattentive Lambert in the nuts things first. He had a free afternoon after that. Eskel had stopped with the pitying looks too, so that was a plus.  
Throwing bombs on the other hand had been kind of fun. Too much fun, it seemed, for Vesemir forbid him to touch a Dancing Star ever again. Lambert got scolded for encouraging and abetting. They had bonded at dinner after that, talking about the beauty of explosions and the satisfaction one got when things went _boom_. Geralt and Eskel had been a bit afraid of them after that and had hidden away the saltpeter and sulfur. Spoilsports. 

  
————————

The small crescent moon had been hiding behind thick gray clouds and the darkness had been closing in on Jaskier again. So he had left Geralt in bed and made his way into the big airy hall, where there was always a fire or torch around and the ceiling high enough to let him breathe. He had his lute and one of the diaries in tow he had been reading over and over for the last days. Jaskier was not sure if Vesemir knew about them or simply forgot those in his cautionary sweep.

He settled down on the floor in front of the big fresco that showed a Witcher on a horse fighting a cockatrice.   
The stories he’d read just wouldn’t leave his head, the words that had build over the time he’d thought about them breaking out of him now. A silent half whispered singsonging left his mouth. 

>   
>  _There's a grief that can't be spoken,_   
>  _There's a pain goes on and on._   
>  _Empty chairs at empty tables,_   
>  _Now my friends are dead and gone._

  
Jaskier hadn’t known that years ago a horde of fanatics, their hatred incited by various publications defamatory of witchers, laid siege to Kaer Morhen. He had wondered why the fortress looked so ransacked and on the verge of falling down. The mob would not have captured the fortress nor later turned it into a ruin without the help of mages. Sure, he had known about the Pogroms. But seeing the repercussions of them every day in a big hall that hosted only a handful of Witchers in winter, but was build for hundreds of inhabitants made his heart bleed.

Practically all those who were in the fortress and Bastion during the assault perished. From among those witchers who called Kaer Morhen home, only a few survived the massacre, merely because they were out on their Paths at the time. The bones of the dead remained at the bottom of the moat surrounding the stronghold to this day, left there as a reminder of the massacre that was born from hatred directed against changelings. Why were people so bigoted and small-minded? Why couldn’t people just realize that everyone was equal, no matter their profession, color of skin or eyes, the length of their ears or the height of their body? Would the hate and useless killing ever stop? 

> _From the table in the corner,_   
>  _They could see a world reborn,_   
>  _And they rose with voices ringing,_   
>  _And I can hear them now_   
>  _The very words that they have sung_   
>  _Became their last communion_   
>  _On this lonely barricade, at dawn._

  
Most of the Witchers here had been nothing but kids. A lot of those had been orphaned or had come from abusive parents. Being taken in by Witchers some had hoped for a new start and a new sense of purpose. Through closed eyes and tears streaming down his face he could see the angry mob with their pitchforks and torches, the hate in their eyes while they slaughtered a band of boys barely able to lift the heavy steel swords their teachers pressed into their shaking hands. He imagined the mages in the background now, every single one looking like Rience. Smirking sadistically. Haughty voices demanding violence, hungry for blood and inflicting pain. 

>   
>  _Oh my friends, my friends forgive me_   
>  _That I live and you are gone_   
>  _There's a grief that can't be spoken,_   
>  _And there's a pain goes on and on_

  
He cried for them. He cried for himself. He cried for the Witches that had died at Sodden. The troops that died and were still going to die because some powerhungry handful of men wanted to make history. Sweet Melitele, what a broken world they lived in. 

>   
>  _Phantom faces at the window,_   
>  _Phantom shadows on the floor,_   
>  _Empty chairs at empty tables where my friends will meet no more._   
>  _Oh my friends, my friends don't ask me_   
>  _What your sacrifice was for_   
>  _Empty chairs at empty tables_   
>  _Where my friend will sing no more._

He played some last notes, wiped away his tears and stood. He felt hollow but some heavy thoughts had been lifted from him. He felt like a could breathe easier. He could sleep now.  
When he turned around, four Witchers stood huddled in the entrance to the sleeping quarters, starring at him in wonder, a mix of strange emotions on their faces Jaskier had no interest in figuring out. He decided for nonchalance to get out of this awkward situation quickly.  
“Sorry for waking you. Sometimes I forget about the superhearing. I promise not to burst into song at three in the morning anymore. Back to bed, everybody.”  
When he passed Vesemir, he pressed the diary in the owners hands.  
“I am sorry.”  
Was he sorry for reading the diary in the first place without permission? For waking him? Sorry for Vesemirs hard fate? His fallen comrades? For him being the only living survivor who had to live with the blame and guilt of it day in and out? Sorry for all of it?  
Vesemir could decide for himself.

Jaskier was wiped out and yearned for some shuteye.

The four looked at his retreating back.  
“Holy shit. Where was that coming from?”, whispered Lambert.  
“So much life crammed into one small being,” agreed Eskel, a bit awed still by the way Jaskiers voice had transported so many feelings.  
Geralt smiled a bit at that. He had missed this side of his bard. The spontaneous singing. The outbursts of honest emotions without a care for filters or shame. The impressive voice with the power to move to tears or make people smile and dance.

“That’s what he’s made of: 160 pounds of emotions, music and stubbornness.”

“Nah, look at that shrimp. 150 pounds wet, tops.”

Vesemir stayed silent, deep in thought.

———————

Jaskier can’t remember who’s idea it was to open another bottle after Vesemir went to bed. When Jaskier and Geralt had toasted to ‘fucked up childhoods’, as was a little tradition of theirs by now, Eskel and Lambert had been intrigued. So Jaskier had grudgingly told the story of his upbringing. After a few more demijohns - Jaskier knew better than to match them drink for drink and had paced himself - Lambert told Jaskier his sob story unprompted: about his abusive alcoholic father and the Witcher invoking the law of surprise and so bringing him to the keep. Citing the Law - “give me that which you find at home yet do not expect" - made Eskel tell the tale about his own child of surprise, Princess Deidre Ademeyn, and the circumstances under which he received his scars.

Silence permeated their drinking circle after that.

And then, out of nowhere, Jaskier started giggling. 

“Oh my, Geralt. You are such a dumb idiot. Nothing good came out of the law of surprise. Ever. You obviously knew that. And yet you stood before Queen Calanthe and claimed it like a silly joke anyway. You stupid dipshit. You should thank every god you know every single day for Ciri to be the exception to the rule. But sometimes I am really questioning your thought process. It’s like… you have three choices and that one brain cell of yours goes ‘Fuck it’ and settles for the worst one.” 

He downed his drink and conspiratorially leaned forward.

“Tell me, guys. What do you do when you can’t sleep?”

Eskels answer came instantly. “Glass of milk.” 

“Sex.”, remarked Lambert. 

Jaskier threw his arms forward, as if to say ‘See?’.

“I approve of both. Very reasonable choices. Geralt, love. Remind me again. What decision made that one brain cell of yours?”

Geralt grumbled and hung his head in shame while he got laughed at by his family.

——————-

The White Wolf and the oldest Witcher sat in the great hall in the early morning hours, oiling saddles and leather straps, when Jaskier joined them.

“There is a storm coming,” he premonitioned.

“Yeah, we know. We can hear the thunder,” murmured Geralt, engrossed in his work. “How do _you_ know?”

A small container of familiar salve was shoved in the White Wolfs face.

“Because I can feel it. They are itching and aching like mad. Could you-?”

Without waiting for a response he stripped his tunic, sat down next to Geralt and draped his naked upper body over half of the table. He had never been particularly shy and he wouldn’t start now. 

He groaned in relief when Geralts ministrations and the salves soothing and pain numbing properties took effect.

“Sweet Melitele, that’s nice. The itching was killing me. No wonder you are so grumpy all the time.”

“I don’t feel them anymore, really. They are just an ugly nuissance by now.” 

“Scars are neither ugly, nor a nuisance. They are a place where light can enter.” Jaskier lifted his head abruptly. “That was impressively deep of me for this time of day. Remind me to write that down.”

“Mh.”

He lay down again to indulge in Geralts caresses some more.

“Where’s the rest of the fearsome five?”

“Haven’t seen Lambert and Ciri all morning. Eskel went to investigate. But he’s gone for over an hour now.”

“We should probably fear for our lives,” supplied Vesemir. 

He seemed put out by the display in front of him, so Geralt declared the job done and dropped the tunic on Jaskiers head as a sign to get dressed again. The bard knew Geralts views concerning public displays of affection, so instead of kissing him like he would do in their chambers, he caressed his thigh in thanks. 

“What we should actually fear for is dinner. Lamberts turn. So noodles again.”

“Hell no. Those are nowhere near any food category eatable for mere mortals like me. Ciri could die from Lamberts cooking. I’ll make Pierogi.” 

When he put his tunic on again, he noticed Vesemirs stare still directed at him.

He was so sick of that all of a sudden. 

“Excuse me, Vesemir, sir. I have nothing but the utmost respect for you. I know you have a lot of reasons to be weary of humans in the Keep. Believe me, I get it. But could you stop it with the disparaging glances?”

“I don’t mind you at the keep. Geralt obviously trusts you. I can smell the… intimacy between you. And the fact that you just bared your neck and unprotected back in front of me shows me that you trust him without fault, too. Trust me, even. You’ve been unnervingly at ease with all of us. You never smelled like fear once. It’s unsettling and humbling in equal parts. No, it’s your profession that leaves me uneasy.”

“Wait… you don`t like me because I’m a bard?”

“I’ve read your work. I know you are not the bumbling fool you make yourself out to be, especially when Cirilla is around. Recognizing a scroll of Vodyan runes for what they are and categorizing it under ‘Intelligent underwater races’ shows me that you are far more intelligent than you let on. As far as I understand, you also have a big sway with the public. People listen to you. I am afraid of what can happen if you changed your mind about us. One well worded ballad and people will hate us even more. You could start another Pogrom for Witchers if you wanted to. All it would take is one Witcher raising your ire. One catchy ditty with the right rhymes about throwing sand in sensitive Witcher eyes, making a lot of distracting noise to confuse super hearing, stealing their potions essential for survival. That’s it. It would destroy the last of us.”

Jaskier thought about that valid point for a bit. 

“Okay. That’s fair. I see your problem with that. You don’t know me enough to realize that it’s also utterly stupid and unfounded. It took me a good ten years to improve your reputation. In those ten years and then some, Geralt had punched me in the gut, insulted me on a daily basis and broke my heart. If I really would want to punish you all, I would have done it by now. I am very forgiving as it is. And if I really wanted to go on a rampage, I would go against individuals and not a whole profession. Pigeonholing is not my thing. I also don’t have a single vindictive bone in my body.”

“You hit a man with your tankard once because he criticized your performance,”interjected Geralt. 

“-I have barely any vindictive bones in my body-” “And there was that wish about apoplexy.”

“YES, okay. I can be a bit vindictive sometimes. I am trying to make your father figure like me here, Geralt. Which side are you on, anyway?

“… I’m neutral. It’s the code.”

“Well, no foot rubs for you for a while, Mister Neutrality. Point is, I mean you no harm. Now or ever.”

There was a loud crash from the direction of the kitchens, followed by loud shouting and Ciris high pitched screaming to ‘put the fire out! He will kill us, for Freyas sake! Eskel, DO SOMETHING! Oh no, Jaskier is so going to kill us!”

Jaskier closed his eyes in mortification, his lips pressing together in a slim line. The screaming stopped, although you could still hear loud crashes and a hiss when some flames were extinguished. Then there was silence.

“Vindictive, huh?”   
“Scarily so.”

Jaskier stood slowly, dreading what kind of chaos he would find in his kitchen and hoping against hope, that there was no reason to kill anybody. Geralt and Vesemir could hear his enraged screaming not five minutes later, threatening to spank Lambert with a frying pan if he didn’t clean everything up this instant. 

Geralt and Vesemir wore matching little nearly-smiles.  
“He’s growing on you, isn’t he?”  
“Like mold.”, agreed Vesemir grudgingly. 

  
—————-

  
They have met for a late round of dice, working themselves through a barrel of wine. Jaskier had joined them with his notebook and grafite, intent on poetizing and mingling, but was mostly starring. Either into nothingness, his thoughts on a new song idea - or at the Witchers of the School of the Wolf, making observations and scribbling down a note or two. No one took notice of him for there was the usual roughhousing between the brothers in arms and the occasional dispute about Lambert somehow cheating at dice poker.

Geralt just had Lambert in a playful chokehold so Eskel and Vesemir could inspect his set of dice for foul play, when they looked up like one and stopped speaking. A moment later Ciri entered the hall, hair mussed from sleep and eyes big and unsure. 

“There’s a monster under my bed!”, she declared.

Jaskier had to bite his lips from grinning widely when a bunch of monster hunters didn’t know what to do about that for a second.  
Lambert got out of his chokehold and produced a dagger from somewhere, lifting it high in the air.

“Fear not, princess! I shall kill the foe this instant.”

Ciri shook her head vehemently. 

“Don’t! It didn’t do anything bad. I just want it to go away.”

Geralts right corner of his mouth lifted just slightly into a minimal proud smile and started to get up to do his fatherly duties. 

“Make it go away, Jaskier. Please?”

Geralt seemed kind of put out. They all did. 

The bard was oddly touched. Four fearsome men at her disposal who hunted monsters for a living. And Cirilla wanted the bard to make the monsters go away. 

He realized quickly what she was actually after.  
“I haven’t done this in a while, for no monsters dare to hide under my bed anymore. Too much dust bunnies that makes them sneeze. A smelly sock or two. And a lot of used hankies.” He threw Geralt a dirty look and a suggestive smirk, which made Geralt roll his eyes.

“So you have to help me out here. How did it go again?”

“ _Wolves asleep amidst the trees_ ,” singsonged Ciri, taking the hand Jaskier hold out for her. He joined the tune in sotto voice, leading her slowly away from the table and through the halls of the keep, back to her room. Their joined singing could be heard through the whole Kaer, the haunting lullaby’s echo permeating the old walls.

> _Birds are silent for the night_   
>  _Cows turned in as daylight dies_   
>  _But one soul lies anxious wide awake_   
>  _Fearing no manner of ghouls, hags and wraiths_   
>  _My dear dolly Polly shut your eyes_   
>  _Lie still, lie silent, utter no cries_   
>  _As the witcher, brave and bold_   
>  _Paid in coin of gold_   
>  _He'll chop and slice you_   
>  _Cut and dice you_   
>  _Eat you up whole_   
>  _Eat you whole_

  
“Haven’t heard that in a while,” murmured Geralt.  
“Me neither.” Vesemir conceded. “I had my doubts about him but… He is good with her. Giving her something that Witchers and sorceresses alike are unable to provide.”  
“Giving it to us, too”, Eskel murmured. “I haven’t laughed that much in ages. And you are actually smiling, Wolf. Like, regularly. Sometimes I even hear you laugh in your chambers. Hold on to him.”  
Geralts small smile was bittersweet and rueful.  
“I will, this time.”

———————————

The three young Witchers were at repair works that day, since the weather allowed it. They were patching up the eastern ramparts this time around. Lambert was in a mood today, constantly complaining about cold feet and even colder hands. When he nearly slipped and crashed through a still loose wooden board he got extra snappy. 

“Meliteles tits, Geralt! You were supposed to make those things secure like half an hour ago! Did that singing catamite of yours fuck out your last remaining brain sell or what?”

“Lambert!”, admonished Eskel. There had been an unspoken rule not to talk about what went on behind those bedroom doors. 

“What? Oh right, because _hes a friend of humanity, I should give him a reeeest. He sees an epic cock and gets hard as a rock, he’s fucking a bard now, and also get’s fuuuuu_ -OW!”

Lambert turned around to see who had thrown that wrinkly apple at his head. He was greeted with a look at an enraged Jaskier in all it’s glory. He had some hay in his hair, a pitchfork in one hand, an old looking book in the other. He had been mucking out the stables for at least four hours now, obviously distracted with something else. 

Lil’ Bleater was hot on his heels, the goats snout trying to get in his pockets, where he kept the fruity treats. Both of the little horns had been decorated with a ribbon and artful bows. 

“Will you stop that? I am trying to compose here!”

“Ohh, now the bard is snappy because we’re talking about his sex life, too?!”

“I really don’t care about people talking about my sex life. I didn’t care about that since I was sixteen. What I care about is you _singing_ that stupidly catchy song when I try to write the epic of a century for Eskel, you prick! So shut your fucking trap with that really nice baritone and go back to casting aspersions on my awesome sex life again.”

He turned around, speaking to Lil’ Bleater like it was his personal assistant. 

“Can you believe that asshole? Okay, then. Back to business. The foe was 'paal'. To rout is ‘graan’. Graen? Am I pronouncing that right? It says 'graan' is a strong verb, so we could also use it as a noun or adverb too, right? Gosh, this would be so much easier if we could ask someone who-” He stopped in his stride. 

When he turned around he had put on his most angelic face, all sweet smiles and big blue eyes.

“Geralt, my dear. Love of my life. You wouldn’t know how to get in touch with Villentretenmerth, would you?”  
“No.”  
“But-”  
“Let me get this straight: You want me to get into contact with Borch - a golden dragon and ancient magical being - because you want him to check out some grammar in a few lines of song.”

“If you put it like that…I’ll figure it out.”

Jaskier sighed deeply in defeat, turned around again and addressed his little white assistant. 

“Okay, Lil’ Bleater. No help there. Figures. From the top. Naal ok zin kos vahriin. Or is it los vahriin? The conjugations give me headaches, I swear-”

“Is he actually learning dragon language because of a song he writes for me?”

Geralt made a dismissive gesture at Eskels shocked face. 

“Don’t think about it too hard. I am just glad that he is occupied. That energy of his is superhuman. Between Ciri, Lamberts training, you and me we might actually wear him out for once. He is amazing, a fucking delight, really. But having his attention on me all the time is fucking _exhausting_. Take your share of it, I beg of you.”

It was three days later when they heard the final version. Jaskier had sat himself down on the dinner table right beside Eskels plate, lute in hand and had started with the words “Eskel. My sexy fire-breathing Witcher. My lovely dragon. I did a thing. Lend me half an ear, will you?” before tickling a sweet melody from Filavendels gift.

> _Our hero, a witcher and warrior with heart._   
>  _I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes._   
>  _With hands wielding power of the ancient north art,_   
>  _Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes._   
>  _It's an end to the evil, of monsters and foes._   
>  _Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes._   
>  _For the darkness has passed and the legend yet grows,_   
>  _You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come._   
>    
>  _Dovahkiin, dovahkiin_   
>  _naal ok zin los vahriin_   
>  _wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!_   
>  _Ahrk fin norok paal graan_   
>  _fod nust hon zindro zaan_   
>  _dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal!_
> 
> _A fogler, a wraith, an unbeatable hitch_   
>  _Not far, not far, the Dragonborn comes_   
>  _And all will be measured, both coward and king_   
>  _I know, I know the Dragonborn comes_   
>  _Together through snowfall and sorrow we stride_   
>  _For now, for now the Dragonborn comes_   
>  _Until we next meet under blue mountain skies_   
>  _Hurrrah! Hurrah! The Dragonborn’s come!_

When the last note faded away, Ciri clapped excitedly. He bowed at the one appreciative fan, then looked at Eskel expectantly. 

“A review would be nice. Three words or less?”

Eskel looked stunned and thoughtful, letting the lyrics sink in for a while.

“What is this dragon speak about?”

“It’s very generic, since I only had a small vocabulary to choose from. You have sworn to fight evil, your enemies tremble in fear and we pray for your blessing. Yadayada. Nothing fancy. It’s intended to make the whole dragon aspect seem genuine. Also: goosebumps if performed right.”

Jaskier looked nervous now, awaiting carping criticism. 

“I like it…”, remarked Eskel after a long while. Jaskiers shining smile rivaled the sun. 

“It’s not something you can sing along to, though.”

“It doesn’t need to be. Geralt has this aloofness going on. He needs to look more approachable, that’s why he got a catchy song that is also a little bit ridiculous. You’ve got a totally different problem. You are a kindhearted man shunned because of some scarring. What you need is people looking past that, being in awe and treating you with the respect you deserve. You, my dear dragon, need an epic. When they look at you after this hits they won’t see the scars anymore. They will see a hero in a fire red jacket spiked like a dragon tail. They will see a man of legend, wise and fierce, fighting for them. Standing up for what is right and just. They will see the dragonborn.”  
Honey eyes locked on cerulean blue, trying to see what Jaskier envisioned so clearly and already accepted as truth. 

“That’s… a lot of pressure? Also humbling. Insightful? Definitely manipulative.”

Jaskier shrugged. 

“It’s my trade.” 

“What about me, then? What kind of song do I get”, interposed Lambert. 

Jaskier smiled cheekily and strummed a few chords. 

> _“Lambert, Lambert, what a prick._   
>  _I’m glad Geralt taught me this limerick.”_

Eskel and Ciri laughed heartily, while Geralt and Vesemir snorted into their tankards. 

“See, Lambert, here’s the thing: you only get a song written when you are _nice_ to the bard.” 

“That will never happen.” Lambert sniffed his nose in indignation, but a small smile showed that he took the dig in good humor. 

“I know. It would also be a pointless effort. As soon as you open your mouth, whatever tale I spin to make you look good goes to waste anyway.”

“You little shit. I’ll see you on the training grounds tomorrow afternoon. We’ll see who’s laughing then.”

—————————————————-

  
Turned out he was not half that bad with a bow and arrow. Feeling wood and string under his hands felt familiar enough. He had the upper body strength and dexterity for it too. The bard could keep far away out of the action so he wouldn’t get hurt too seriously and still _do something_ when Geralt needed help. Jaskier also liked the fact that the possibility of actually killing someone was slim, as long as he actually _hit_ the thigh he was aiming for.  
He winced as the manikin took an arrow in the knee. 

Lambert proudly boasting about his mentee at dinner was a new experience for everybody. Over time the target was not only 30 but 80 feet away, moved around and he had aimed for the knee from the start.  
“That’s not how it happened!”, exclaimed Jaskier, exasperated.  
Huh.   
Wasn’t that an interesting role reversal. 

————————————-

  
“ _Half a century of_ … poetry?”  
“My memoirs.”  
“But… half a century? A bit ambitious, maybe?”  
“You know how much shit Geralt and I have been going through over the years? If I don’t write that down now, it will muddle together with the stuff that’s still to come.”  
Vesemir smiled at him, a little proud of the courageous philanderer that obviously dared to leave Kaer Morhen in the spring time with them. And so soon after going through trauma. He may have made a fine Witcher after all.   
Then a thought raised the aging mutants eyebrows.   
“Wait… You must know each other for … at least a quarter of a century by now? How old were you when you met?”  
The minstrel made a dismissive gesture.  
“I need to concentrate here.”

> _“I would wager anyone that you, dear reader, are a person of culture and taste - and therefore already familiar with me and the role I am to play in the following tale. Nevertheless, allow me to sketch a few lines by way of self-portrait, for the sake of thoroughness, and in the event you have spent much of the last half-century in some dark corner where the light of my star has yet to reach.”_

————-

Some weeks before spring showed his first tender greens, Ciri was supposed to be portaled away again. She reacted rather unprincesslike with kicking, screaming and pouting. Yennefer was not impressed. 

“You make me feel like the bad parent here!”, the witch complained to Geralt.

“You are not.”

“I know, but I still -”

“Geralt is a bad parent, too!”, remarked Ciri flippantly from the sidelines. “He never allows me to do the cool stuff when we train.”

Geralt threw her one of his patented unimpressed looks.

“Guess you have to deal with _all bad_ parents, then,” retorted Geralt sarcastically.

Jaskier took that moment to sweep into the hall, Cirillas cloak, gloves and a few knick knacks in hand that Ciri had left leaving around. 

“No, I don’t.”

Both Yennefer and Geralt glared at Jaskier in envy and anger, while he dotted on Ciri and wrapped her into winter gear. He hugged her one more time and kissed the top of her head.

“What?”, he asked unknowingly when he noticed the mood. 

“What did I do now?”

———

“So, … one for the road?”, Jaskier asked although that question obviously was purely rhetorical. The way he hold his lute - like a weapon, armed and ready to shoot some melodic arrows and throwing knife-like rhythms - left no room for protest. While they stood around the little court yard, each Witcher with their hands on the reigns of their steeds, Jaskier took one last and long look at the men he soon would consider family. 

At Eskel, who had been shunned not because of his profession, but because of a scarred face. But not for long anymore.

At Lambert, who was hurt time and time again and put up so much walls that it needed a sledge hammer of honest emotions until he could trust someone. He hoped he broke at least some of them. 

At Geralt, who had been hiding in his own head for so long, that he didn’t notice the little gathering of friends he made everywhere he went. Jaskier would make sure he noticed from now on. 

And at Vesemir, the bravest of them all. He was holding down the fort for a slowly dying race. He had watched countless of comrades and students die, but he still woke up every morning, greeted the last of his kind every winter in a place that was haunted by memories of the past. The bard hoped he could make new ones for him. Happier ones. 

Jaskier took a deep breath and filled the first day of spring with his clear tenor:

> _I am not a stranger to the dark_   
>  _Hide away, they say_   
>  _'Cause we don't want your broken parts._   
>  _I've learned to be ashamed of all my scars_   
>  _Run away, they say_   
>  _No one'll love you as you are._   
>  _But I won't let them break me down to dust_   
>  _I know that there's a place for us_   
>  _For we are glorious._

He strummed his first chords on an elven lute that was given to him at a day that changed his life. In any other hands it was just another instrument. In Jaskiers hands alone, Geralt could swear, the vibrating strings produced powerful magic beyond any witches or witchers comprehension. 

> _When the sharpest words wanna cut me down_   
>  _I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out_   
>  _I am brave, I am bruised_   
>  _I am who I'm meant to be,_   
>  _this is me_

Jaskier turned around sharply, his posture changing, ready for anything that would cross his Path. His feet fell into the familiar motion of walking, an unknown journey ahead, wanderlust in his heart, the panorama of the Blue Mountains filling up his vision. 

> _Look out 'cause here I come_   
>  _And I'm marching on to the beat I drum_   
>  _I'm not scared to be seen_   
>  _I make no apologies, this is me_

Nilfgaard could suck it. Hell, Dijkstra, too, for all he cared. He would not play their games of intimidation anymore. 

Lambert shook is head in disbelieve. He had seen the broken ball of hurt when he arrived in this godforsaken, cold halls. But somehow the little shit put himself together and transformed into this fucking ray of sunshine, spreading warmth wherever he went. How was he even real?

Jaskier was marching on, with a bunch of _oh-oh_ s on his lips and bellowing out that there was nothing that he wasn’t worthy of, when Eskel bend to Geralts side, a happy smile on his lips but worry in his eyes.

“As moving as that sentiment is and all… should we interrupt and warn him of the falling rocks and avalanches his echo could trigger?”

Geralts chest was filled to the brim with a warmth he now recognized as love. He needed a moment for Eskels words to reach his brain.

“Fuck. We better.”

Vesemir tsked his arab mare into a trot, following the bard with an indulgent smile.

“Let him sing. This will be a great lesson for him. And for you to freshing up on Quen, Aard and Heliotrop. Our bard get’s hit and I am making you wear your own saddle bags. ”

The three younger Witchers groaned, but followed their youngest and oldest family member quickly into the new adventure anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon Funfact:   
> And today’s Lambert’s turn and he can’t cook anything other than noodles. If he could only cook those properly...  
> Blood of elves - Andrzej Sapkowski
> 
> Damn and thank you, CD Project Red, for making me cry and laugh and scream and cuss. I will play these fucking heartbreaking games until I get the ending and pairing I want (the deaths at the battles in KM in both W1 and W3 get me every time and I don’t like it!).Thank you Joey Batey, for lending me your fantastic voice and portraying this bi disaster with all its hand gestures, swagger and pouting. Thank you Andrzej Sapkowski, for bringing all these characters to life in the first place.  
> And thank YOU, of course. It has been a pleasure writing for you, my dear reader. I haven’t written anything this lengthy since days of olde when I was in my teens and wrote horrible Harry Potter fics over at ff.net. Your feedback has been immense and gave me back my passion for writing.   
> Make love and music and stay save out there. 
> 
> Tomorrow you will get the promised extra chapter: Encore / Lady Tedium. 
> 
> On another note: A friend of mine told me that while my english is decent, there are still a lot of errors. If anyone would be willing to improve this one and is also available for future projects, please don’t be strangers and send me a message over at [tumblr](https://00qtee.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Here a little summary on what I’m working on right now:  
> The Roach was the most feared ship from the Gulf of Praxeda to Peixe de Mar, boarding nilfgaardian regattas and combat vessels from Novigrad alike, while slaying fearsome sea monsters around Skellige every other tuesday. The Witch and Witcher of the northern seas were living legends known to every sailor. Captain Geralt Rivia and his first in command Yennefer thought they’d seen it all. But no one was ready for the adventure they embarked on when they fished a young nobleman out of the sea. Geralt should have listened to Zoltan and let that twink walk the plank before the crew fell in love with that nuissance and his stupid songs… 
> 
> So, if you are an english native speaker and willing to work with me on this pirate!AU Witcher adventure, please leave a message! <3


	7. Encore - Lady Tedium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In my book, friendship is all that matters. Well, friendship and love. And art. Oh, and wine...  
> \- Dandelion to Geralt, Blood and Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go and press play for Ends of the earth by Lord Huron.

It was the year 1266, and while sixteen year old Ciris body was changing every week now, she also noticed that Jaskiers pretty face didn’t. 

Jaskier grinned.   
“It’s a blessing.”  
“It’s a curse.”, murmured Geralt.  
Jaskier made a dismissive gesture.  
“It’s a stupid thing either way.”  
“No, you are not getting away with that stupid handwaving again this time. Fess up.”  
Jaskier rolled his eyes, but obliged. 

“Since time immemorial the Pankratz family manor was located near the Brokilon. It’s told that my great great grand father met a powerful wood fae, she fell in love with him but he broke her heart. So she cursed him and all his descendants with eternal beauty in exchange for eternal heartbreak.”

Jaskier shrugged as if it wasn’t a big thing and kept on pitching his lute. 

“Pretty sure she didn’t think that through, tho. Never specified if we are the heartbreakers or the heartbroken. My dear mother sure as hell never had a heart to start with, so it’s obviously not the later with her. Either way, the Pankratz family hides behind that shit as an excuse to be coldhearted assholes.”

“Jaskier, are you-” Ciris eyes were filled with sorrow.

“Aww, don’t look at me like that, princess. I am perfectly fine. I have a very big and sturdy heart that is used to a little bit of heartache. I am a bard after all, I live on that stuff.”

“But-”

The poet took the hand of the teenager to give her some comfort, since she was clearly distressed with the thought of his heart aching and breaking. That girl. He would kill for her by now. 

“Listen Ciri, it’s really not that bad. I think it’s better to love and feel some pain than to never love at all. I am a very sensitive soul, falling in love every day with the oddest things. I love the way the sun comes up every morning and my heart breaks with the beauty of it when it sets again in the loveliest shades of reds. I have joy in picking flowers but I am a bit sad every time they wilt. I loved the way your little kid button nose wrinkled when you were upset and I will never see that again, now that you will be a woman soon.” He tenderly bopped her nose with a finger, making Ciri come out of her sober mood.

“Everybody hurts sometimes. And for me, it comes with benefits.” He raked his hands through his hair dramatically,emphasizing his wrinkle free face and pouting his lips for good measure, fluttering his long lashes.

Ciri laughed at his antics.

“Also, I am pretty sure you broke the curse. I could have sworn I found a gray hair just the other day, after you jumped from the second floor library window to escape Vesemirs lessons. If I ever see you doing that again, I will tan all your clothes an ugly mustard color.”

Ciri was shrinking under the looks Jaskier, Geralt and Vesemir were giving her now. 

“I just remembered that I am on kitchen duty, bye!”, she squeaked out fast, dashing out of the room.

Jaskier smiled to himself for a second, then picked up his lute tuning again.

Vesemir was deep in thought. 

“So if you just holed up somewhere-”

“Immortality? No idea. We _do_ age. Very slowly and very dignified. We are cursed with eternal beauty, not eternal youth. But we are human nonetheless and die of heart attacks and bad coughs as quickly as anyone else. My recluse great uncle Dorian is around 90 years old by now, looking not a day over thirty six, that paranoid bastard. I intend to see more of the world than just a dingy cottage, though. That curse means nothing, really. I have decided early on that this stupid family thing doesn’t define who I am and how I live my life. If destiny wants me to step on a nail tomorrow and die of infection so be it. Sitting in a manor day in and out, celebrating vanity? Hell no. I’d rather see what’s out there and die on a fishbone tomorrow.” 

His eyes drifted off into far away places, roads unwalked and cities unseen. 

“Don’t you wanna know what’s east of Dol Blathana, behind the mountains? I’ve been told it’s just lots of sand, but I’ve never seen a desert myself. There are rumors about traveling folks riding on strange hunchback animals. And something about a princess telling a new story every night to save her life. And I want to see what’s south of Nilfgaard,too. They say there are mountain peaks spewing fire like dragons. People half man, half goat. A king turning everything to gold with a touch of his hand.” 

He had started strumming his lute while pondering on all the options.

> _“Oh, there's a river that winds on forever_  
>  _I'm gonna see where it leads_  
>  _Oh, there's a mountain that no man has mounted_  
>  _I'm gonna stand on the peak_
> 
> _Oh, there's an island where all things are silent_  
>  _I'm gonna whistle a tune_  
>  _Oh, there's a desert that size can't be measured_  
>  _I'm gonna count all the dunes”_

Jaskier thought about all the stories he himself could tell by now. About all the creatures he had seen and people he had met. And also about all the nuances of love and hurt he had gone through. 

He remembered them all, their names and the exact reason why they were precious and beautiful: Frances for her strength, Letisha for her wit, Jakub for his spark, Weronika for the little innocent smile, Constanz for their impressive hands, Agata for her filthy laugh, Alessandro for the way he talked with animals like they were his equal…   
Unloving parents. The Countess de Stael. Priscilla. Vespula. Anna Henrietta. Fucking Valdo Marx. 

He risked a quick glance at Geralt. He was mending his relationship with Yennefer for the sake of Cirilla. He had seen the longing looks they threw each other. There was something blooming, slowly, like a first green leaf poking out of soil. Geralt looks – well, he looks like he’s in love. And really, who is Jaskier to deny his witcher a loving relationship with the prettiest, scariest, most powerful sorceress on the whole fucking continent?

The bard was not naive, he knew exactly how this would end for him. They there bound by fate and she would always be Geralts Last Wish. 

Another heartache. Another failed romance.  
It was a fucking curse alright. 

While he knew that the love they shared for each other was deeper than a romantic relationship, more fundamental then a simple friendship with the occasional roll in the hay, he also knew that it would be hard to see him go as a lover. He would start walking his own Path, adjusting to their knew dynamic. He wished Geralt all the love in the world, even if his own heart would break a bit at the loss of their daily physical intimacy. But as he promised a long time ago: they would adapt. And they would forever be in each others lives. 

He would deal with it like he always did: Mending his heart with writing a song, playing until his fingers bled, singing until his voice was raw. Dealing with one heartbreak at a time, throwing himself in a new adventure. He had no intention to miss out on new experiences because he was hung up on the past.

> _“To the ends of the earth, would you follow me_  
>  _There's a world that was meant for our eyes to see_  
>  _To the ends of the earth, would you follow me_  
>  _Well if you want, I will say my goodbyes to me_
> 
> _I was ready to die for you, baby_  
>  _Doesn't mean I'm ready to stay_  
>  _What good is livin' a life you've been given_  
>  _If all you do is stand in one place_  
>  _I'm on a river that winds on forever_  
>  _Follow 'til I get where I'm going_  
>  _Maybe I'm heading to die but I'm still gonna try_  
>  _I guess I'm going alone”_

Eskel put down his oil cloth and dagger halfway through Jaskiers performance. He looked at the bard with a thoughtful expression.  
“Creatures half human, half goat, huh? That I have to see. Mind if I tag along for that next big adventure of yours?”

Jaskier was filled with a fluttery warmth he knew all too well.  
Eskel, for his empathy. 

“Not at all, my pretty Witcher,” he answered with a flirty little smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you expect a Happy End? Please. This is 'The Witcher', people: complex characters living in a complicated world. There is no 'best ending', only endings you are more comfortable with.  
> Please don't consider this a break up. It's just the way things are - two people loving each other but wanting different things in life. Geralt deserves to settle down after all the fighting he had done. So it's only logical to stay near his new found family; Ciri, and in extension, Yennefer. Jaskier wanted to see the world instead. It is how it is. One adapts.
> 
> "This isn't a breakup, dear heart, it's a season finale." (Battle Cries by The Amazing Devil)


End file.
